


They Write Books About This Sort of Thing

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Why are you calling me?" Éponine demands as soon as she answers Grantaire's call, her voice short and clipped. There's genuine concern lurking beneath the tone, though. "What happened? Your plane didn't explode, did it?"</p><p>"Unfortunately not." He's standing in the aisle, crushed between the over-cologned businessman in front of him and the man with shoulders like a linebacker behind as they all file forward, making glacial progress toward the front of the plane and freedom. "At this rate, I should be at baggage claim in twenty. Where's the nearest liquor store?"</p><p>She gives a laugh that's short and sharp and means she's more irritated than amused. "How the hell should I know? I'm your agent not your personal assistant, and I've never been to Boston before. Isn't that what your fancy smartphone's for?"</p><p>"My fancy smartphone is for being able to answer your emails while I'm in the air, or at line for Starbucks, or whizzing through the city in the back of a cab. Also for Candy Crush."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=5055791#t5055791) kinkmeme prompt, though not a direct fill, as I think I'm going to end up taking the genre vs literary debate in a direction other than what the OP would prefer.

"Why are you calling me?" Éponine demands as soon as she answers Grantaire's call, her voice short and clipped. There's genuine concern lurking beneath the tone, though. "What happened? Your plane didn't explode, did it?"

"Unfortunately not." He's standing in the aisle, crushed between the over-cologned businessman in front of him and the man with shoulders like a linebacker behind as they all file forward, making glacial progress toward the front of the plane and freedom. "At this rate, I should be at baggage claim in twenty. Where's the nearest liquor store?"

She gives a laugh that's short and sharp and means she's more irritated than amused. "How the hell should I know? I'm your agent not your personal assistant, and I've never been to Boston before. Isn't that what your fancy smartphone's for?"

"My fancy smartphone is for being able to answer your emails while I'm in the air, or at line for Starbucks, or whizzing through the city in the back of a cab. Also for Candy Crush. I'm too desperate to try to wrestle with it to find someplace that sells decent alcohol. We sat on the runway for _three hours_ , Ep."

She clucks her tongue and makes soothing, poor-baby noises. "I know. I'm sorry. But you have to be at The Next Page in forty-five, and you can't start your book tour off by showing up at your first gig with wine on your breath."

Grantaire shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against the businessman's shoulder and ignores his dirty look. "I hate you."

"I'm half the reason you get to spend the majority of your life working in ratty pajamas and fuzzy slippers. You love me."

"Half?" His eyebrows climb. "Somebody's full of herself."

"You write the books, I sell them."

"I'm pretty sure our contract says that you're fifteen percent of the reason. You're one hundred percent of the reason why I have to pretty myself up and go to things like this, though, so that gets you nothing."

"Don't be a cliche, R. If you make it through the talk and the signing without embarrassing yourself, I'll send you the address for a good liquor store on the way to your hotel."

Grantaire gasps, feigning shock. "You've been holding out on me."

"No. But I'm willing to do a little googling, given sufficient motivation. Behave, okay? It's only a couple hours."

He makes a face at the phone, even though there's no way Éponine can see it. It makes him feel better, in any case. "Fine. But you'd better call the store and let them know I may be running a little late. Somebody's struggling to get her bag out of the bin up ahead and we're all logjammed behind her."

"You're not going to be late, R," she says with a brightness that means it's a dire threat.

"I still have to get down to baggage claim."

"Then you're going to have to hire the fastest cabbie in town, aren't you? Give him a good tip and tell him to step on it, I'll make sure you're comped. You're not going to start your book tour by showing up late."

"I'll start my book tour off however I please," he tells her, because _somebody_ has to keep her bossiness in check, and then disconnects because the line is finally moving.

The lady who caused the hold-up doesn't even have the grace to look bashful as they all spill out behind her. Most of the passengers who were stuck with Grantaire behind her give her dirty looks or mutter obscenities beneath their breath, but Grantaire doesn't have time for that. He's got a bag to retrieve and a cabbie to bribe and it's going to be a stretch getting to the bookshop in time as it is.

He's the sort of man who can move mountains when determined, though. And he really, _really_ wants that liquor store recommendation from Éponine.

#

He bursts through the bookstore's glass doors with five minutes to spare and is greeted by a veritable sea of humanity, milling around as the store's employees try to keep them entertained. He pulls himself to an abrupt stop and gapes. The last time he saw a crowd this big for a signing, it was some multi-author deal where ninety percent of the people there had shown up for an author who was a much bigger name than he was, and despite the crowd he sold two books and spent the whole thing wishing desperately for alcohol to numb the tedium.

This event is just him, though, and he was expecting maybe a steady trickle at best. _Maybe the store's having some kind of sale,_ he thinks, bewildered and already more than a little overwhelmed, and ducks his head down as he shoulders through and tries to find an employee to help him.

He grabs onto the first girl he finds with a store ID badge on her shoulder. She gives him a bright smile, but he can see the relief in her eyes when she recognizes him. "Oh good, we were just starting to wonder if we should be worried." She takes him by the arm to lead him back to the employees-only area.

Back there, at least, it's just the two of them and he can breathe. "You've got three minutes until go-time." She offers him a smile that's more genuine than the one she'd given him out in the store. "I hope you're ready."

"Where did they all _come_ from?"

"Well, we've been promoing the event for the last week in-store..." She looks doubtful even as she says it, though, a little frown wrinkling her brows. Then it clears away beneath another smile. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that, right?"

"Sure," he says dully, but this does not feel like a gift, this feels like a burden. His skin itches at the thought of going out there into that throng. There's a reason he ended up in a profession where he gets to spend his days alone, all communication done over email or text, and no matter what Éponine thinks, it's not because of the dress code.

He's already got a talk prepared, thank fuck, and he even managed to practice it a few times so he won't be completely awkward. "Ready?" the girl asks him, and he squares his shoulders and reminds himself that as far as mandatory human interaction goes, he's still getting off easy. There aren't a lot of other jobs that would only make him talk to people for one week out of the year.

"Ready."

She turns that over-bright smile on and holds the door open, and Grantaire steps out to smile and shake hands with all the people who have turned up to see him.

#

The crowd seems vast and overwhelming, even once the store's employees wrangle everyone into some semblance of order. Grantaire hangs to the side while the girl with the bright smile stands up in front of everyone and introduces him, eyeing everyone and wishing he hadn't listened to Éponine after all. This would be a hundred times easier to deal with if he'd had something to drink on the way over.

The store planned for a sizable event, but there are still many more people than there are chairs. They stand along the sides, leaning against bookshelves, or sit in front with their legs crossed and their gazes attentive and oh god, Grantaire can't do this.

The girl calls his name and everyone erupts into applause. Grantaire's feet carry him forward automatically because they're traitors. He takes his place behind the podium they've set up for him, grabs onto the edges so hard his knuckles go pale and bloodless, and clears his throat. "Thank you," he says, because this may be his idea of torture, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't know the debt of gratitude he owes to his readers and fans. They're the reason he gets to stay home in his pajamas all day and make a living by it, and he's lucky, because if he'd had to take an office job to make ends meet it probably would have killed him.

He gives a little spiel about the book. It's mostly just the back cover blurb, livened up in places with the things he thinks are important or even just interesting about the story, and when he's done with that, he reads a passage from it.

He selected this passage weeks ago and has spent the time since practicing and preparing for it, thank god. He thinks if he had to choose a selection now, with all these people staring at him waiting for it, he'd choke and probably choose something that made no sense outside of context, or spoiled the whole thing for everyone, or was just plain boring. But the one he's already got bookmarked in his copy of the novel is one he thinks is interesting. It stands alone, and it teases hints of the story's magic system, which is one of the things he's most pleased with and most proud of in the book, and it gives a nice introduction to his main character to boot.

Hopefully they'll like it, he thinks, and then puts those thoughts from his head because it's not as though he has options.

It's not that he's terrible at this. He knows how to read in such a way that it'll bring the characters to life out loud the way they are in his head, and send everyone off entertained at the end of the night. Each book tour he's done has been steadily better-attended than the last, and he thinks (he hopes) it's because he's given people a good time, and a good story. It's not that he isn't good at it, it's just that he _hates_ it. This part in particular, standing up in front of everyone, trying to sell them his book. Trying to sell himself. It makes something sick and twisted rise up like gorge in his throat, because all he's ever wanted to do was write. If he'd had a burning desire to be a salesman, he'd have gone off and gotten one of those awful desk jobs, and he'd wear suits and ties to work every day and probably be paid a lot better than he is now.

Once the reading's done he can finally breathe, because it's time for signing and that's the part that he's good at, that he's comfortable with. He likes talking with readers, likes seeing the spark of interest light in their eyes as he coaxes out of them the things they're passionate about. There's a big difference between talking _with_ people and talking _to_ them, and this is the part that's his comfort zone. He could talk with fellow book-lovers all night long and never break a sweat.

The store sets up a table and several impressive stacks of his book for those who didn't bring their own copies, and everyone shuffles into a line that weaves around the bookcases. Grantaire uncaps his pen, smiles at the girl who managed to snag the first place in line, and waves her forward when she seems a little overwhelmed and reluctant to come up to him. "Hi! Thanks for coming, I hope you had a good time. Do you have something you'd like me to sign?"

She comes forward and gives him a battered, dog-eared copy of one of his first books and apologizes, shamefaced, for not being able to purchase a copy of his new one tonight. "I'm first on the waiting list at the library for when they get it in, though," she adds.

"Hey, no. This is fine. This?" He holds up the much-loved book she handed him. "This is _awesome_. May I?"

She nods, pressing her knuckles against her mouth like the thought of him touching the same pages that she has might make her head explode with delight. Grantaire opens the book, careful of the broken spine, and flips through it. He grins at her when he notices that many of the sections she dog-eared are some of his very favorites, and they talk for a minute before a discreet cough beside him reminds him that there are others waiting for their turns, too.

He signs her book, _For a true fan_ , and then on impulse adds his email address underneath. _Drop me a line and I'll figure out a way to get you a copy,_ he writes. Éponine's going to tear her hair out and give him looks like he's the worst thing that's ever happened to her when she finds out, but fuck it. He'll buy the girl a copy himself, if she's that worried about her commission or his sales numbers. But there's something to be said for goodwill, and for rewarding fans for their loyalty, and also there's something to be said for just plain being nice, which is not something Éponine would know anything about. He loves her to pieces, but _nice_ is not a word anyone would ever use to describe her, even on a good day.

He's made it through thirty people in the line and is starting to wonder if he's going to have to get the store to order in dinner for all of them so he can finish up without keeling over from starvation when there's a presence at his elbow and a pointed cough.

"Just a moment," he says, his head bowed over the book he's in the middle of signing. "I know the line's long, but please wait your turn. I promise I won't leave while there are still people waiting."

The little cough comes again, and then there's a hand on his elbow that makes Grantaire's pen falter across the page and his head lift, even before a familiar voice says, "R."

He turns, disbelieving, to the sight of Enjolras standing there frowning at him like he's just been conjured up right out of Grantaire's head.

"What are you doing here?" It comes out a belligerent demand, because this is unprecedented and because Enjolras is supposed to be in New York and if Éponine knew he was planning on showing up for the first night of his book tour Grantaire is going to _kill her_.

"I was in the area," he says with a tight smile and a glance to the next person in line, who's shifting uncertainly and frowning like he can't decide whether he should protest being line-jumped or not.

"My editor," Grantaire says to the crowd with a smile and a flourish, so they don't decide to mutiny. "He pretties up all my words so they're actually worth reading." And then he turns his attention back to Enjolras and what he said, and he shakes his head because that's a lie, it has to be. No one just happens to be in the area two states away.

That's not really the vital part, though. How he got here isn't half so important as why he's there in the first place. Even if it's not a lie that he just so happened to be in the area, why would he show up here, to the signing of a book that he put through so many rounds of editing that he practically knows the words by heart now, and is surely sick of them? It can’t be to hear Grantaire read, and it's not as though he has to stand in line if he really wants a signed copy.

"I've got some numbers I wanted to pass on to you." Enjolras gives the line a glance and hesitates. He fades back a step. "Go ahead and finish your event. I can wait."

"Sure, because that's not ominous or anything." But there are people waiting, and so he has little choice but to turn his back to Enjolras and smile and greet the next person in line.

Enjolras hovers over his shoulder through the rest of the signing, and Grantaire's skin prickles with awareness of his proximity until Grantaire wants to scream and shove him back, or drag him off and force him to admit what it is he's really there for, because it's not as though numbers can't be easily conveyed in an email.

The store and its employees are absolutely lovely about staying open much later than they'd anticipated so that Grantaire can sign books for everyone who showed up, and when the last person has left with a copy clutched to his chest and a broad grin across his face, Grantaire slumps forward across his table and groans into the laminate surface.

He can sense Enjolras still hovering nearby, and he can practically feel the impatience radiating off of him. But it's not Enjolras's butt that's sore from sitting in that chair all evening, and it's not his wrist that feels broken from signing his name a hundred thousand times, so Grantaire figures he can just go ahead and stew for a few minutes more while Grantaire stretches out his poor, aching back.

It's one of the bookstore employees who rouses him, with an apologetic, "I'm sorry, sir, but we really have to close up."

Grantaire waves off the apology and drags himself up to his feet. "Thank you for staying," he tells each of them, and pulls out his phone to make a note to have Éponine send a gift basket to the store tomorrow, to show his appreciation for going above and beyond the call of duty.

Enjolras follows him out of the bookstore with that same air of poorly-restrained patience and when Grantaire's standing on the sidewalk out front, squinting at the empty parking lot and trying to remember if anyone had arranged for a car to take him to his hotel, Enjolras touches his shoulder.

It's light contact, as such things go, but it makes Grantaire's skin spark and his nerves jump. "My rental's over there." Enjolras tips his head toward a lone sedan waiting at the back end of the parking lot.

"Bully for you," Grantaire says, because Enjolras has a habit of only saying half of what he means and expecting you to infer the rest, and Grantaire doesn't believe in being an enabler.

Enjolras gives a sharp sigh. " _R._ Just come with me. We'll go find a diner that's still open, and we can talk over food."

Grantaire's not sure he relishes the idea of talking, not when whatever it is was dire enough that it sent Enjolras all the way out here to break the news to him. But food sounds amazing, and maybe if he plays his cards right he can get Enjolras to agree to a place with a liquor license. He shrugs one shoulder, says, "Lead on, then," and keeps half a step behind as they walk to the car, despite the frowns Enjolras keeps throwing over his shoulder and the way he adjusts his gait, trying to slow down so that Grantaire will fall into step beside him.

Enjolras climbs behind the wheel and waits, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, until Grantaire circles around and takes shotgun. Even when Grantaire's in the car, he doesn't turn it on, just looks at him significantly, like Grantaire's supposed to know what the problem is.

When Enjolras drops his gaze down to the seatbelt, Grantaire blows out a breath and rolls his eyes. "Jesus, I was getting there. It's not like we're going to get into a high-speed crash in the middle of the parking lot." He yanks the belt over his shoulder and fastens it, and Enjolras starts the car up and puts it into gear easily. "I want something greasy and terrible for me."

"Your self-preservation instincts are a marvel, truly."

"Remind me never to introduce you to my mother. The two of you would probably gang up to lecture me about my life choices, and then there'll be no living with either of you."

Enjolras doesn't grace him with a reply, which is about as much as Grantaire expected. He just pulls the car out onto the street and navigates through the city in silence.

Grantaire tips his head back against the rest and shuts his eyes. He's too wired for sleep, but maybe if he feigns it, it'll keep Enjolras from talking at him before Grantaire has some food in his stomach to fortify him for the confrontation.

When Enjolras turns the car off, it comes as a surprise. "I believe this should suffice." He sounds droll, almost amused, and that gets Grantaire's eyes open.

They're parked in front of a diner, complete with buzzing electric neon OPEN light and a sign promising the best burgers in the state. It looks like the greasiest of greasy spoons, and it makes Grantaire grin, already reaching for the door's latch. "This will do very nicely."

He makes his way inside, leaving Enjolras to climb out and deal with locking the car. The waitress behind the counter gives him a tired smile when he steps inside. The tag on her shoulder proclaims her name to be Marge. Grantaire sidles up to the counter, with its glass display of cakes and pies. "Marge, my darling, make my night and tell me that you serve alcohol here."

Marge gives him a furrowed look in the middle of filling ketchup bottles. "We've got Bud?"

"I'm desperate, so I'm going to say that counts." The door squeaks behind him. "Ah, that must be the rest of my party now. Do we seat ourselves?"

"Help yourself," she says, dry. "I'll have that drink right up."

Grantaire thanks her and drops into a booth with a window view out over the empty parking lot, leaving Enjolras to come over and join him. "They have beer," he says happily.

Marge brings his bottle over just as she says it. Enjolras gives it a droll look. "I don't think that actually counts as beer. I could have taken you somewhere else if you wanted to drink, but I thought you wanted to eat something bad for you."

Grantaire narrows his eyes. "You are being frighteningly obliging."

Enjolras sighs and leans his head in his hand. "You're overthinking it, R."

"If you were my doctor, I'd think you were about to tell me I was dying."

_"Grantaire."_

"Just lay it on me. Whatever it is, it can't be as frightening as you being nice to me." Despite the bravery of his words, though, Grantaire takes a long drink from the beer bottle to steel himself for whatever's to come.

Enjolras's mouth tightens, lines forming at the corners. He looks grim and unhappy and Grantaire has a moment to think, _Oh God, maybe I_ am _dying,_ before Enjolras hefts his briefcase up, pulls something out of it, and slaps a newspaper down onto the table between them.

Grantaire eyes it mistrustfully.

"Open it. The entertainment section."

"Is this your way of breaking a bad review to me?" Grantaire reaches for the paper even as he asks, weighed down by a sense of foreboding and inevitability. "I liked it better when you just emailed me a link so I could blacklist the domain."

He's not a precious flower who thinks the world should dote on every word he publishes simply because he wrote it. But he learned the hard way with his first book that criticism sends him into a whirlwind of doubt and second-guessing and makes it damned near impossible to get any new words on the page for a week, at least, because he's too busy trying to make sure that he's not repeating past mistakes to actually come up with any of them.

Enjolras just sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose like Grantaire is a trial he doesn't know if he can endure. "Just open it, R."

Grantaire does, flipping through until he finds the entertainment section and leaving the rest spread haphazard across their table. The headline is something about some blockbuster movie breaking records, or bombing, or something. It's not about him or his book so he skims past it, on the hunt for whatever news that was so dire that Enjolras decided he needed to break it to Grantaire in person.

He turns to the reviews section, because that seems the most likely culprit, but there isn't anything of his in there, either. Finally, Enjolras either takes pity on him or loses patience (and judging by the way he growls, "For Christ's sake," before he snatches the paper out of Grantaire's hands, Grantaire's betting on the latter) and slaps the paper down, his finger pointing at a box whose header reads, _New York Times Bestsellers for the Week Of _.__

__The first title listed underneath it, the very first, is Grantaire's. He stares at it for a solid minute, his thoughts buzzing, his brain gone to a scream of white noise static. "What," he manages, and when he looks up, Enjolras is _grinning_ at him._ _

__"Congratulations."_ _

__"Is this a joke? Is it some kind of prank?" He flips the paper over, searching for some indication that it's one of those novelty newspapers you can buy and put your own content into. "What is this?"_ _

__"It's good news, R." Enjolras puts his hand over the paper, pinning it to the table and halting Grantaire's frantic search. "It's not a prank. I can pull up the Times's website and show you, if you'd like."_ _

__"I think maybe you'd better." His voice doesn't work. All that comes out is a faint, reedy sound. His chest is too tight and his head is spinning a little and he's going to pass out, or throw up._ _

__Enjolras just looks tolerantly exasperated as he pulls his phone out and taps at the screen for a moment. When he holds it out, Grantaire can see that he's brought up the Times's website (and if he spends a moment scrutinizing the URL to make sure that it isn't a spoof site, well, he doesn't think he's entirely unjustified), and the bestseller list, and his name and title are still right there, sitting impossibly at number one._ _

__He's a fucking New York Times bestselling author._ _

__"I think I need another drink."_ _


	2. Chapter 2

"You should celebrate."

Enjolras is being remarkably sanguine about this whole thing, and Grantaire's not sure how he's managing it, except maybe that Enjolras is a robot. "I believe liquor is the traditional beverage of celebration."

Enjolras raises one eyebrow, unimpressed. "I'll buy you a slice of cake."

"Unless it's rum cake, thanks but no thanks."

Enjolras sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose again, and if Grantaire were a little bit more coherent he'd seize upon the opportunity to tease Enjolras for being completely oblivious to paltry things like human emotions, but instead he just lays his head on the slightly-sticky tabletop and tries to figure out how it's possible that this is his life. "Is that why the store was swamped? Because of the Times?"

"Hard to say with any certainty, but it does seem likely. Popularity has a tendency to feed on itself, once you hit a critical mass. And the mention in the paper would only help."

_Help_ makes Grantaire choke off a laugh. It doesn't feel like help. It feels like madness. "Is the whole tour going to be like this?"

Enjolras is quiet for a long moment, long enough Grantaire considers lifting his head and narrowing his eyes at him, but it feels like too much of an effort. "You know I can't predict that. It very well might be."

"Kill me now."

_"R."_ Enjolras sighs like Grantaire is the most difficult writer he has ever had to deal with. "This is a good thing."

"You do it, then."

He's being unfair and he knows it. There are plenty of writers out there who would kill for even a fraction of the success that Grantaire's had. Hell, a few years earlier he was one of them. And he's not ungrateful, he really isn't, but he's spent three hours sitting on a tarmac and more than he cares to count talking to fans and he loves his fans, he really does, but that doesn't mean it's not physically and emotionally exhausting and right now, the thought of doing it over and over again for the next two weeks makes him want to curl up with a bottle and drink himself stupid.

Enjolras is quiet too long. Eventually, he clears his throat significantly, and oh god, that can't mean anything good. Grantaire lifts his head enough to look at him, braced for the worst.

"That's why I'm out here, actually."

"I knew you were lying. 'In the area' my ass."

Enjolras's mouth tightens and he makes an impatient gesture. "This news from the Times. Like I said, popularity tends to feed on itself once you get enough of it, but you have to be prepared to take advantage of any opportunity to help it along, or it'll fizzle out."

"Just tell me. Whatever it is you've decided to do to 'take advantage of the opportunity', just tell me already. The suspense might actually kill me."

Enjolras stares at him for a moment, his brow creased with frustration. Grantaire just waits, because god damn it, he's not going to _beg_ , and eventually Enjolras blows out a sharp breath of air. "Don't say no."

"I can hardly do that when you haven't even told me what it is I'd be refusing, can I?"

"Damn it, Grantaire." He sucks in air to replace the breath he exhaled, then gives his head a quick shake like Grantaire has used up the last of his patience just by sitting there in front of him. "The book tour. We'd like to extend it by another two weeks."

"Oh god." Grantaire drops his head back onto the tabletop. That's four weeks on the road, away from home, sleeping in beds that aren't his own. That's a solid month of being sociable and witty oh god, he just wants to _write_. "Can I refuse?"

"I maybe phrased that poorly. We _are_ extending it by another two weeks. We've added ten more stops--"

"Oh my god, why do you guys hate me?"

"--and that's what I'm here for, to take of the last-minute planning and help ease through any hiccups that may develop along the way."

It takes a full minute for Enjolras's words to sink in. Grantaire lifts his head again, then straightens fully and leans back into his chair, frowning at Enjolras across the table. "You're coming with me, is what you're saying. You're going to be with me on the tour."

"Yes." He holds his hands up like he wants to forestall a protest before it's even come. "This is the best for everybody, R. I'll be able to take care of logistics, and leave you free to focus on your fans and your work. If I'd been with you today, I could have made sure that everyone was apprised of your delayed flight and you wouldn't have had to race across the city to avoid being late. I know I'm not your favorite person in the world, but this really is the best thing we can do right now. For you, for your book, for your career."

Grantaire buries his face in his hand and chokes out a laugh because he's still hung up on _not your favorite person in the world_. It makes Enjolras's frown deepen to a scowl, though, and he snaps, "It _is_. I've been doing this a long time, R, I know how to do my job."

"I don't doubt you do, Apollo."

"And if that's not reason enough for you, you're contractually obligated to participate in any promotional events the publisher organizes and requires your presence at."

"God damn it, you don't have to threaten me."

"It's not a threat. It's just a statement of fact." Enjolras lets out a slow, carefully-measured breath. "Look, sit up, please. This was supposed to be a celebration. You've managed something incredible, R, and I didn't bring you here to make you look at me like I just kicked your puppy." He flags down Marge as Grantaire obeys, grudging but doing it all the same, and asks about her dessert offerings.

He ends up ordering a decaf coffee for himself and a slice of triple chocolate cake for Grantaire, and Grantaire figures that if he can't have booze, he could do worse than chocolate for a substitute, and digs in.

The cake is incredible, and when he tells Marge so, she flushes and looks pleased and he wonders if she didn't bake it herself, and that makes him appreciate it all the more. Halfway through the oversized slice, however, his stomach informs him that he is full beyond capacity and there is absolutely no way he can eat even another bite, so he gets Marge to box it up for him and then sits back and gives Enjolras a look across the table as he finishes the last of his coffee. "Are you staying at the same hotel as I am?"

"I booked an additional room, yes."

"Okay. Then let's get back, because I seem to recall I've got a schedule that's going to necessitate leaving at an obscene hour of the morning, and I'd like to get at least a little sleep so I'm not a zombie at tomorrow's event."

Enjolras nods and pays for their dinner, and on the way out Grantaire once again falls back to walk half a step behind him. Enjolras gives him a sidelong look as he slides behind the wheel, but Grantaire doesn't know what it means and Enjolras doesn't explain, so Grantaire just lets it go. He's exhausted from the long, demanding day, and now that he knows he's got a month's worth of them ahead of him, it just makes him want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head even more.

It's not a long trip from the diner to the hotel, but Grantaire nods off all the same, and wakes up to the sound of the engine suddenly going quiet. "Rise and shine," Enjolras says, dry and amused. "We're here."

Grantaire blinks at the hotel through the windshield, then reaches with fumbling hands to release his seatbelt. He's sleep clumsy and it takes him a moment. He's nearly got it when Enjolras makes a sound that might be frustration just as easily as it could be amusement and reaches over to hit the button for him. "Show off," Grantaire mutters, then climbs out and grabs his bag from the back of Enjolras's rental.

He lets Enjolras take charge of checking them in and getting their room keys, because what's the point of having your editor along to handle the logistics if he's not going to take care of these sorts of things? When Enjolras presses a plastic keycard into his hand and says, "Third floor, down the hall to the right, room 317," Grantaire just closes his fingers around it and staggers off, lured by the promise of a bed and at least a few hours in which to make use of it.

#

It's still dark out and the hotel room's phone is ringing. Grantaire flails awake, manages to knock the receiver off of the cradle and onto the floor, fishes it up by its cord, and snarls across the line, "I did not ask for a wake-up call, this is terrible customer service."

"You didn't have to." That's Enjolras on the line, not some pleasant-voiced front desk attendant. Grantaire flops over onto his back, scrubs the heel of one hand across his sleep-crusted eyes, and remembers. "I know you well enough to figure you'd need one."

"You are cruel and I hate you."

"Get up, Grantaire. If you can get down here in ten minutes, I'll buy you coffee from an actual coffeeshop, instead of subjecting you to the sludge the hotel serves."

"I'll be down," Grantaire says, already swinging his legs off the bed and trying to remember where he left his socks. There is little he won't do to avoid the horror that is hotel coffee. "I can't guarantee I'll be awake, but I'll be down."

He's standing in the lobby, swaying on his feet and gripping the handle of his luggage for balance, with seconds to spare. Enjolras's smile is mostly bemused but a little pleased, like he's proud of him. He looks disgustingly awake for such an hour. His hair is wet from the shower and his clothes are neat and he's clear-eyed and alert, and Grantaire squints at him and wonders if maybe he's secretly a robot.

"Come on." Enjolras takes his luggage and wheels it along behind him without a glance over his shoulder, just expecting Grantaire to fall into step beside him. "The lady at the front desk said there's an indie coffeeshop a few blocks up that's to die for."

"You're going to make me _walk_ there?" Grantaire stops and stares at Enjolras's back, aghast.

Enjolras turns back. A slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "It would do you good, and probably wake you up better than the caffeine. But no. The valet's already brought our car around."

" _Valet._ Fancy. Is this the red carpet treatment the publisher rolls out for its bestsellers?"

Enjolras's smile tugs a little wider. "It's just expediency. I've heard horror stories of what you're like in the mornings."

"Ha ha." Grantaire pushes past him and out the hotel's glass doors to the car that he can see waiting for them at the curb. The valet opens the door for him, wishes him a good trip, and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed the way Grantaire practically has to pour himself into the seat. For that, Grantaire fishes his wallet out and shoves a fistful of bills at him. He's not sure how much money it is, but even if they were hundreds (not likely, the only time he's seen hundred dollar bills, they've been in other people's wallets), he figures it would be worth it.

Enjolras joins him moments later. Grantaire slumps down in his seat and puts sunglasses on to shield him from the lights of the road and the imminent sunrise. "I'm going to sleep," he says. "If I start snoring, you'd better just suffer through it."

"If you start snoring, I'm turning on talk radio."

"I definitely hate you." Grantaire pushes the sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and settles into a comfortable position to sleep.

#

Grantaire doesn't know what sort of strings Enjolras had to pull or feats of magic he had to perform in order to get the seat next to Grantaire's at the last minute, and he won't say no matter how much Grantaire questions him. He just smiles to himself, smug and silent, and tells Grantaire he'd better buckle up before the stewardesses yell at him.

Grantaire sleeps through the flight and hopes he snores terribly, just to make Enjolras's life more difficult. He wakes as they touch down to discover his head on Enjolras's shoulder, his drool soaking into the sleeve of his shirt, and Enjolras studiously ignoring both of those things.

"Oh Christ." Grantaire jerks back, instantly awake, and stares at the wet spot on Enjolras's sleeve in horror. "Oh Jesus. You should have shoved me off or something. You should have woken me up."

Enjolras taps the screen of his e-reader and seems completely unconcerned. "You obviously needed the sleep."

"The sleep, sure. I'm pretty sure I didn't need to defile your clothing." He starts shoving his things into his carry-on while Enjolras unhurriedly shuts off his e-reader and tucks it away neatly. "I'll pay for the laundering, or buy you a new one, or something."

"If that's the way you intend to squander your newfound success, then I'm not sure you deserve it. I can wash my own clothes, Grantaire."

Arguing with him about it is not doing anything to help Grantaire's mortification, so he just jerks his gaze away and busies himself shoving at the things in his carry-on, though it isn't necessary and there's plenty of room in the bag.

They make it off the plane much quicker than the day before, thank God. Grantaire hurries ahead to the baggage claim because if he lets Enjolras stay in his field of view he's not going to be able to do anything but stare at that spot and obsess over the realization that Enjolras _let_ him drool on his shoulder, rather than wake him.

Not spending three hours killing time on the tarmac means that they have plenty of time to get to the hotel, check in, and drop off their things before they have to head to the next bookstore on the tour. Grantaire grabs his keycard the moment its handed to him and flees to his room, where he stands under the hot spray of the shower for long enough to turn his skin red and his fingertips to prunes. It's still not enough time to purge the memory of Enjolras's saliva-stained shirt from his brain, though.

He's still got a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair dripping onto the carpet when there's a sharp, insistent knock at the door. He answers it as he's scrubbing a towel through his hair, trying to dry it out without turning the curls to a mess of frizz and tangles.

Enjolras is on the other side, looking as sharp and crisp as he ever does. He's changed his shirt, thank god. Grantaire would ask him how he managed to pull a shirt out of luggage that he packed at the last minute and have it come out pristine and wrinkle-free, but he's distracted by the way Enjolras is staring at him, like he's never seen a guy in a towel before and he's more than a little scandalized by it.

"I could have waited," he says, choked, and half turns away to stare down the hall.

Grantaire just shrugs a shoulder and tosses the towel from his hair back toward the bathroom. "It sounded urgent." It always sounds urgent, when it's Enjolras, but that's neither here nor there.

"We need to leave in ten minutes if we're going to make the event on time." He looks Grantaire over and his expression turns doubtful. "Will you be able to be ready by then?"

"I'll be ready in five," Grantaire says, and swings the door shut so he can make good on the promise.

The nice thing about writing for a living — one of the nice things, there are _lots_ of nice things about his job — is that people rather expect you to show up in faded jeans and a graphic tee. It's practically a uniform. Grantaire throws the clothing on, runs fingers through his hair, grimaces at his reflection in the mirror when that does absolutely nothing to tame his curls, and then grabs his sunglasses and his wallet and heads down to meet Enjolras. This time, he's even got a few minutes to spare, and he's maybe a little bit smug when Enjolras looks surprised.

"Let's go," he says, and lets Enjolras lead the way.

He's expecting more of the same when they get to the bookstore. He's expecting crowds and to be overwhelmed, and he's bracing himself for it the entire drive over. What he's not expecting is to step through the store's doors and find himself faced with a bright banner overhead that reads _#1! CONGRATULATIONS!_ and a crowd of complete strangers greeting him with massive applause.

"What is this?" His voice is breathy and probably faint enough that it only reaches Enjolras's ears.

Enjolras's hand on his elbow leads him forward on numb feet, into the throng, where he's surrounded by people applauding and clapping him on the back and saying things like, _I've loved your books from the very first one, I knew it was only a matter of time until the rest of the world caught on._ "It's a party," Enjolras says, bending down to murmur it close by Grantaire's ear. "You deserve one."

There's a big poster-board display of his book's cover and someone brought in cupcakes with the raven from chapter six on them and Grantaire is grateful that this is the sort of bookstore with comfortable armchairs sprinkled around for customers to read in because he has to sink down into the nearest one and hyperventilate a little bit.

"You planned this?" Enjolras looks too insufferably pleased by it all for it to have been anyone else's handiwork. "That was very short notice."

"I'd have had a harder time of it if you hadn't slept the whole flight over. As it was, I just put out a call for help on your twitter--"

"Oh god. How do you even know my password?"

"I asked Éponine. She said she set it up for you, and that she told you to change the password once she handed the reins over, but that you probably hadn't. She was right."

"Traitor. I'm totally going to fire her."

"You are not." Enjolras takes him by the arm again and helps him up to his feet. "She did something nice for you. You're going to come have a cupcake and enjoy it."

"Does this mean I don't have to give a talk?" He might almost be able to do as Enjolras says, if he doesn't. That's always the worst part of these things. But eating cupcakes and mingling with fans and talking about books with them, that's something he can do. He'll just have to be careful to make sure he keeps his back to the banner, and maybe also the poster-board cover, so they don't do his head in.

"It's your party, R. You can do whatever you like."

Half of the cupcakes are made of a rum cake base, and it makes Grantaire laugh, only a little hysterically. "Nice touch," he says to Enjolras, and Enjolras's pleased smirk is all the thanks he needs. The other half are chocolate, and they look rich and dense and Grantaire avoids them because between them and the cake the night before and the leftovers he had for breakfast, he fears if he lets himself indulge he'll end up in the Times again, this time on the front page as the very first confirmed case of death by chocolate overdose.

At some point, someone edges up to him with a copy of his new release in his hands and asks if Grantaire would mind terribly taking a moment out of his celebrating to sign his book. When Grantaire tells him that of course he wouldn't mind, he finds himself with a small crowd gathering around him, everyone with copies both old and new, hoping for a signature.

He finds his way to one of the armchairs and sits there to do the signing. It's nice like this, sitting somewhere that's plush and comfortable instead of one of those hard plastic folding chairs, and without the barrier of a card table between them. It feels more like a gathering of friends, less like public speaking.

Everyone pulls up their own chairs or sits on the floor around him, someone retrieves the trays of cupcakes and they get passed around, Grantaire gets tired of just writing his name and starts leaving doodles in the margins of random pages instead, and grins fiercely at the exclamations of delight they receive. Eventually, someone asks him to read a passage from the book, and he's feeling loose and relaxed enough that he flips the book open randomly and does a cold reading. When that goes over well, he accepts the next book -- not the new release, but one of the ones he published a few years ago -- and starts to do the same, but ends up mostly giving commentary on the passage instead. "I've seen a lot of fan theories going around about this part, and what symbolism I could have meant by it, but I swear, I'd just seen someone in that same shirt in town the day before and I was having a bad writing day and was desperate for words, so I said fuck it and I stole it."

There are smiles and laughter and it feels nice, it feels like the exact opposite of the event the day before. Someone breaks out a bottle of red wine that they'd smuggled into the bookstore in their bag, giving them all a secret, conspiratorial grin, and Grantaire could kiss him he's so delighted. They steal paper cups from the bookstore's adjoining cafe and drink wine out of them, and when Grantaire's voice gets rusty he waves a hand and insists the others take their turns doing dramatic readings, and it's the best party he could have ever hoped for.

In the midst of the gaiety and laughter, when one of the girls is reading the book's kissing scene with the most breathy, phone-sex voice imaginable, like every word is salacious, and everyone is rolling around on the carpets in hysterics, Grantaire looks for Enjolras so he can thank him for the party, but he's nowhere to be seen.

"Keep going, I'll be right back," he tells them, waving an encouraging hand, and slips away to search through the stacks for his wayward editor.

Grantaire finds him back in the self-help section, tucked in the narrow aisle between two shelves leaning back against one bookcase. He's got his phone pinned to his ear with his shoulder, and when Grantaire kicks his foot lightly to get his attention and raises his brows, Enjolras just gives his head a sharp shake and shifts the phone to his hand.

"Thank you very much," he says into the phone, but he doesn't sound grateful, he sounds tense. "Yes, I-- I'm going to need a few days. I'm in the middle of something, and I'm sure you understand I need time to think about this. Yes, I understand. Thank you. Just text me your information and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

He disconnects at last with a sharp sigh and then pulls his phone around, holding it in front of him and staring at it like it's suddenly turned into a snake in his hands and he can't quite figure out how the transformation happened.

"What was that?" Grantaire lifts his brows at him again, leaning against the bookcase across from him. "Sounds serious."

"It is." Enjolras sounds numb. He's still staring at his phone, even though the screen's gone black now. "I mean-- No, it's not anything bad. It's a good thing. It's just..." He draws a breath and lifts his gaze to Grantaire. His eyes are wide and his face slack and Grantaire's heart pounds with alarm before he even says the words. "I think I just got offered a job."


	3. Chapter 3

For a moment, the words refuse to sink in, because Enjolras's tone is at such odds with his meaning. Grantaire blinks at him a moment, then pushes upright off the bookcase. "Do you mean a promotion? Christ, what on earth do you have to think about, you know you deserve it."

"Not a promotion." Enjolras draws a careful breath. "That was St. Cloud Press on the phone. They saw the Times, and of course people in the industry know that I'm your editor, and that I'm the one who pulled you out of the slush and fought for you, that I told them back when no one knew who you were that you were going places." Grantaire blinks at that, because people in the industry may have known it, but he didn't, not the about fighting for him, not the part about believing in him. "They offered me a job as a managing editor, point blank. They want me for their line."

St. Cloud Press is the sort of house that publishes dry books by intellectuals, the sorts of things that almost made Grantaire think that he didn't like books or reading or literature because he was forced to read them in English class and they always bored him to tears. He frowns a little, because it would be extremely churlish of him to thank Enjolras for the party by bursting his bubble about the job offer, and says cautiously, "They publish very different sorts of books, don't they?"

"Yes." A slow smile begins to dawn across Enjolras's face, turning his poleaxed expression into something brilliant. "Yes. _Christ._ This is such an opportunity, I can't even think..."

That sends something cold and unpleasant sliding through Grantaire's stomach. He folds his arms across his chest and frowns down at his feet. "You're going to leave me behind? You sure know how to make a guy feel special." He keeps his voice light, the words teasing. But if the quick glance that Enjolras shoots him is anything to judge by, he probably didn't succeed very well at keeping the true measure of his concern out of his voice.

"No one said anything about leaving you behind."

Grantaire gives a short laugh and shakes his head. "My books are not exactly St. Cloud fare."

"But you could—"

Somebody sticks their head around the corner. _"There_ you are. Hiding from your own party?" She comes toward them. "We're saving the last rum cupcake for you."

Enjolras glances at her and presses his mouth shut. "Never mind," he says, short and clipped. "I haven't even decided yet. We can talk about all that later." He tips his head toward the woman. "Go on, enjoy the rest of your party."

"It's your party, too. You planned it. Come with me."

Enjolras protests that, but he does relent, if a bit reluctantly. Grantaire catches his am and pulls him back out to the party, where people are sitting around debating which variety of magic they'd have, if they were characters in his books.

Grantaire grabs the last rum cupcake, breaks it in half and shares it with Enjolras, and then drops back into his armchair and rejoins the conversation with, "Don't be silly, only assholes have gemstone magic, it's completely capitalistic. Pick something else."

That launches an intense discussion about how capitalism would work in a society where magic has value, and whether it would be a boon or a hindrance to the art, and they still haven't finished it by the time the store's employees clear their throats apologetically and inform them that they're terribly sorry but they have to close up or their manager is going to kill them for all the overtime.

Grantaire hugs everyone who's still left, and murmurs thanks in their ears for giving him such a wonderful party. Then he hugs the bookstore employees, too, until Enjolras gives him a concerned look from beneath a wrinkled brow. "Just how many bottles of wine did Mary smuggle in here, anyway?"

"Shut up, Apollo, I'm not drunk." He releases the last one and thanks them all again as Enjolras tries to shoo him toward the door. "I just had a good time, that's all."

Enjolras ducks his head and smiles to himself, and Grantaire can tell that he's pleased. They climb into the car and Grantaire watches him sidelong for a moment. "Thank you," he says at last. "I don't know how you managed to put all this together so quickly, and I'm not going to hug you because I'm sure that would probably offend your sensibilities, but you deserve to know I'm grateful."

Enjolras blinks rapidly at the road, his fingers clenching tight around the steering wheel. He clears his throat and pulls his brows down into a frown. "That's probably wise. It'd be dangerous, if you tried to hug me while I'm operating a vehicle." A moment passes and Grantaire thinks that's as much as he's going to get, but then Enjolras adds, softer, "You're welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

This is going to get mushy in about two seconds if Grantaire lets the conversation carry on, so he just gives a sharp nod, lays is seat back down, and slips the sunglasses onto his face. "Wake me when we get to the hotel," he says, and rolls onto his side so his back is to Enjolras.

He doesn't manage to sleep, not really. But he pretends, listening to the road noise and the quiet sounds of Enjolras's breathing, and it at least keeps them from having to have any awkward conversations between the bookstore and the hotel.

#

Whether it's because of the wine or the cupcakes or the not-quite-nap in the car, Grantaire checks into the hotel, makes it to his room, flops down onto his back in the bed, and finds himself completely unable to get to sleep.

He's going to pay for it in the morning, but eventually he rolls over, grabs his phone off of the nightstand, and hits the speed dial.

Éponine's snarl comes over the line moments later. "Someone better be dead or dying, I swear to god."

"He's going to leave me, Ep."

There's a moment of silence and then Éponine's swearing, punctuated by the creak of bedsprings in the background. "You can hardly lose him when he's not yours to begin with, R."

He lets out a sharp breath. "He got a job offer. At some godawful _literary_ publisher. Oh god, he's going to accept it, I can tell. I'm going to have to find a new editor."

_"I'm_ going to have to find you a new editor, you mean. That's what you pay me the big bucks for, remember?"

"What am I going to do?"

"You're going to keep writing, of course."

She makes it sound so easy, so straightforward. He wishes he could share in her certainty, but the thought of starting over with someone who doesn't know him at all sends his heart winging through his chest in a blind panic. "I am not an easy sort to work with, Ep." He ignores her muttered, _You're telling me._ "What if no one wants to work with me?"

"You just made the Times' bestseller list. Trust me, honey, they'll be beating down your door. A few idiosyncrasies aren't going to even give them pause. You're a writer, it's practically required."

"What if they're all awful?"

She gives a sharp laugh. "Do you need to remind me of all the times you've complained to me about Enjolras? He's awful in his own way, too."

"He bought me beer and chocolate cake. He threw me a party."

He can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks. "Good. You deserved one. But he's still kind of an asshole sometimes. I don't know why you refuse to work with anyone else."

"We have an understanding." What they really have is the sort of working relationship where Enjolras sends him edits that are a bloodbath, Grantaire stets ninety percent of his changes, and then they devolve into long chains of emails in which they ferociously debate the Oxford comma or dangling participles or just how awful adverbs really are and just how strenuously they should be avoided. It's contentious and Grantaire wonders more often than he should why exactly Enjolras puts up with him and his difficult ways, but it's _theirs_ , and he can't imagine another editor who wouldn't either treat him with kid gloves or completely refuse to work with him once he put his foot down about something and started tossing around links to citations that support his position.

Enjolras just sends him those links right back, paired with others that refute their claims or with edits that eviscerate their logic and leave it in tatters, and Grantaire may not enjoy that part of the process terribly much, but it's always interesting, and he always learns something new, and no matter the outcome, he almost always comes out of those debates invigorated.

"Enjolras isn't the only person in the world who can be understanding."

"Oh god," he groans. "I'm going to end up slinging burgers at a fast food chain."

Éponine sighs, but he can hear the reluctant smile in her voice, and this is why he loves her second best. She puts up with his shit, too. "All right, I'm hanging up the phone now. Get some sleep, R. And try not to give yourself an ulcer over this. Whatever happens, I'll help you make sure it all works out in the end, I promise."

"Good night, Ep. Thank you. I'm sorry for waking you up."

"Next time, somebody really had better either be dead or dying, or I'm going to fly out there and kill you myself."

Her words are firm and he doesn't doubt she means them, but she's still smiling, so Grantaire just says, "Yeah, yeah," and disconnects.

He lays in bed a long time, staring up at the blank ceiling, his thoughts spinning and trying to build to a panic, despite is best efforts to keep it at bay.

#

The next day is what his schedule calls a 'rest day', which means he still has to get up at the crack of dawn and wade through the modern day purgatory that is the airport, but there aren't any tour stops scheduled for him at the other end of the flight until the next morning. And he does have Enjolras there, who is unsympathetic to his bleary-eyed grogginess, but who also takes Grantaire's bag without him even having to ask and steers him through the check-in process without complaint. If he weren't going to abandon Grantaire for pretentious literary novels, Grantaire would be heaping blessings on him every step of the way.

As it is, he only manages to keep his tongue in check until they're sitting in the airport coffeeshop with the latte and greasy breakfast sandwich that Enjolras brought him, and then he demands, "What the hell do you see in that literary shit, anyway?" without even realizing he meant to pick a fight this morning.

Enjolras's brows climb and his lips pinch and Grantaire nearly thunks his head onto the tabletop because _oh my god_ , this is not how you convince a man that he should keep working with you. "That's awfully harsh for a class of literature that concerns itself primarily with artistic merit, don't you think?"

Grantaire tries to keep a hold on his tongue, he really does, but there are words poised at the tip of it already and Enjolras's statement is like a grain of sand lodged in the sensitive parts of his psyche, growing more intolerable the longer he tries to ignore it. He drinks a scalding gulp of his coffee and takes a big bite out of his breakfast sandwich to try to keep his mouth too busy to run off with him, but it only lasts until he's swallowed the bite down and then he's barking out a harsh laugh despite himself. _"Artistic merit,_ oh my god. You don't really believe that, do you? That term is so completely subjective as to be meaningless."

A furrow gathers between Enjolras's brows and his fingers tighten on the muffin that he bought himself for breakfast, ripping tiny pieces off of it in an absentminded display of wanton destruction. "You don't think that the literary genre is founded on and predominantly focused with artistic excellence? It's in the genre's very definition, I can pull up the OED if you like."

"Oh God, don't. And that's not what I said. I said that term is meaningless. What's artistic merit? If you ask a hundred different people, you'll get a hundred different answers."

Enjolras tears a large piece off of the muffin and eats it with a scowl. "And yet the genre exists, and continues to thrive."

"Is that what it's really doing? Thriving?" Grantaire's brows climb up his brow. He should be nicer, should be trying to coax Enjolras to stay instead of chasing him off, but he can't help it. He has heard some ridiculous things come out of Enjolras's mouth, but he's never heard anything as incredible as this. "You want to take a poll of our plane and see how many people on board have actually bought a literary novel recently? Hell, how about in the past three years? People only read literary novels when they're taking an English class that forces them to."

"You'd think, if it were doing as poorly as you suggest, the genre would have died out decades ago—"

"It's only kept alive by college reading lists and people who feel like having pretentious literary shit on their bookshelves makes them look intellectual, even if they never actually crack the spine."

Enjolras draws a swift breath and Grantaire _knows_ he's at the very limit of pushing too far, but he can't help himself. " _Grantaire,_ if you think—"

The crackle of the PA system interrupts him and a lady's pleasant voice announces the first boarding call for their flight, and Grantaire has never been more pleased to be saved from himself before in his life. He shoves the last of his breakfast sandwich into his mouth, washes it down with the dregs of the latte, and hurries off to their gate so quickly that even Enjolras has to jog to keep up.

As soon as they're on board and their bags have been shoved into the compartment overhead, Grantaire flags down a flight attendant. "Vodka, please. And you might as well just bring three of them and save yourself the repeat trips."

Her brow furrows a little as she looks at him. "We'll be serving beverages as soon as we reach altitude, sir."

"Nervous flyer," he says with a smile that carries all the charm he can muster, and a little self-effacing grimace to sell the lie. "It'll be much easier on me if I can get some liquid anesthetic _before_ we start hurtling through the sky in a tin can."

She glances around quickly like she's worried the other passengers near them will overhear and get frightened too. Beside him, Enjolras heaves a dramatic sigh and sticks his nose into his e-reader without any further commentary.

"I'll see what I can do," the flight attendant says with a tight smile, and Grantaire calls blessings out after her all the way up the aisle.

It's not a long flight, as such things go, but it feels interminable, and not even the steady supply of tiny bottles of booze help to speed it along. Grantaire spends the flight steadily buzzed and with his headphones in and his music up, trying determinedly to ignore Enjolras beside him, but despite his best efforts, every cell in his body is hyperaware of him sitting there, and he can't stop his thoughts from circling back to him and his literary aspirations again and again, like a tongue worrying a loose tooth until the pain has grown to a throbbing pulse, infuriating even as he knows it's his own fault for provoking it.

Enjolras doesn't speak a single word to him during the flight, and it's just as well, because his sidelong glances are bad enough. As soon as the plane lands and taxis up to the gate, Grantaire grabs his bag and joins the line in its slow shuffle forward. Enjolras is somewhere behind him, he can feel the weight of his stare boring into him, but Grantaire figures he's a big boy, he can find his way to the baggage claim all by himself.

He's standing waiting for the carousel to start moving for five minutes before he realizes that Enjolras isn't with him and perhaps Grantaire's faith in his ability to find his way out of the terminal. Five minutes after that the first suitcases are starting to bounce they're way down the chute. 

"Nothing yet?" 

Grantaire startles, jerking around to where Enjolras has appeared at his side, his expression mild and two coffees in his hands. He holds one out to Grantaire with an expectant lift of his brows.

"They've only just started. We got there early enough that I expect our bags ended up going to be at the very back of the plane, and will be one of the last to come out. What's this?"

Enjolras gives him a look of long-suffering patience. "It's coffee."

"I know it's _coffee_ , Christ. But why?" Then he realizes and gives a harsh laugh and a shake of his head. "Thanks, Apollo, but I'm not so trashed that I need you to pour coffee down my throat to sober me up."

"Will you stop that?" Enjolras's brows snap down and his expression is irritated with a swiftness that makes Grantaire suspect he's been nursing it for a while, and this is just the last straw that's caused it to slip out of his careful control. "It's to warm you up, not sober you up, because it's cold out there and because at least it gives us something to do while we watch other people's luggage spin in circles and because I thought you'd like it. Next time you can buy your own coffee."

Grantaire wraps his fingers around the paper cup and stares down at the steam drifting up out of the lid's drinking hole. "Thanks." It comes out a little gruff, but he can't help it. He doesn't know what to do when Enjolras is insulting his genre one minute and then being thoughtful and buying him coffee to keep him warm the next.

"There they are." Enjolras moves forward and grabs their bags as they come around the first bend of the carousel. Grantaire reaches to take his, but Enjolras just shakes his head and hands his coffee off to Grantaire as he grabs both of the suitcases. "Just don't spill that, airport coffee apparently costs you your firstborn. And lead the way out to the car rentals."

Grantaire leads, keeping half an eye back over his shoulder to make sure Enjolras isn't struggling with the two bags. When they get to the car rental office, he Enjolras's coffee back over to him and sips from his own while Enjolras deals with verifying his reservation and making sure the car they're getting is the one he requested, though as far as Grantaire's concerned, as long as it's got four wheels and an engine he's not inlined to split hairs.

Eventually they are loaded up and on the road and Grantaire's growling stomach reminds him that they're just in time for lunch. When they pass by a shopping center with several fast food restaurants and the smell of french fries in the air, he can't help the yearning sound that he makes.

Enjolras laughs and takes pity on him, turning into the shopping center. "You have terrible eating habits, you know."

"I don't care, I'm hungry, I'd eat anything."

"I'm starting to get that impression."

Grantaire pulls a face at him, then climbs out of the car and makes for the nearest restaurant. Enjolras tags behind, and he may have an indulgently patient expression on his face, but he doesn't make any more comments about Grantaire or his eating habits, and he orders a meal for himself as well, once Grantaire's finished. "I can expense it," he says when he passes his card over to pay for them both and Grantaire protests. "Let the publisher pick up the tab, you've made them enough money to deserve it." His expression twists, turning wry. "And this meal isn't exactly expensive, as these things go."

Grantaire has never been one to turn down free food, and if Enjolras were paying out of his own pocket he might make an exception for that, but since it's all going on the publisher's bill anyway, he shuts his mouth and accepts the receipt with their order number on it, then retreats to find a table while Enjolras grabs napkins and packets of ketchup.

"What on earth are we going to do with ourselves for the rest of the day?" Grantaire wonders when Enjolras has joined him at the table by the window. He stares out at the sun shining high overhead. The tour's barely started and it already feels strange to be out and about while the sun still is.

Enjolras raises his brows at him. "You can do whatever you like. I have a few emails I need to follow up on, and some business calls to make."

Grantaire wrinkles his nose and fiddles with a ketchup packet just to keep his hands busy. "No rest for the weary, I guess."

"This isn't a vacation for me, I still have work that needs to be done."

"Right, I'm sorry, how silly of me. I'm sure you can understand my confusion, considering all I've been doing this whole time is kicking up my heels and sipping margaritas."

The sharpness of his tone makes Enjolras sigh and press the fingers of one hand to the center of his brow.

As soon as their number is called and Enjolras returns with their tray, Grantaire turns his attention to the food. Maybe if he keeps eating, he thinks bitterly, he'll be able to keep himself from saying something stupid and antagonistic _again_. At the rate he's going, it's no wonder that Enjolras wants to dump him and run to other genres, where the authors are probably a lot less of a pain to deal with than Grantaire is.

But still. _Literary._ Grantaire is never, ever going to understand it, no matter how many french fries he shoves in his mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

Grantaire showers as soon as they've checked into the hotel and Enjolras has handed his keycard over, then changes into clothes that aren't wrinkled from travel and flops onto his back in the middle of the bed, feeling more than a little at loose ends without someplace he needs to run off and be, or something he needs to run off and do.

He checks his email from his phone, though everyone who might contact him knows he's on tour and unlikely to have the opportunity to respond to anything until he's back home and slept for a year. There's a long string of congratulatory emails about the news from the Times, but nothing urgent, and Grantaire figures that if he's got a publisher-sanctioned rest day, he damn well ought to take advantage of it, and not spend it working, so he leaves the emails for later and drops his phone onto the bedside table.

He's got a handful of books he brought along for the tour and tries to read the one he's currently making his way through, but his thoughts won't settle enough to focus on the page, and when he rereads the same paragraph three times and still doesn't actually comprehend it, he chalks it up as a lost cause and tosses the book across the room to land noisily on top of his bag.

He's _bored_. It's a dangerous thing for him to be, and one he usually manages to avoid by throwing himself into his writing whenever he starts to feel that restless itch, but the tour is too demanding for him to be able to focus on his latest project the way he needs to. If he pulled open his document now, he'd just spend an hour staring at the screen, trying to remember where he meant the scene to go and what on earth made him think this idea was a good one in the first place.

He's too wired from Enjolras's coffee to sleep, so he resorts to flipping through the HBO guide the hotel left on the nightstand and searching for something stupid and pointless to watch.

It's the middle of the day, so stupid-and-pointless isn't exactly in short supply. Grantaire queues up some comedy that did well in theaters but is not his brand of humor at all and spends the first half of it wishing that the powers-that-be had decided to make the story about the side characters, who are somehow much more interesting and nuanced than any of the headliners.

There's a knock at the door. The main romantic pairing are currently professing their love to each other despite the complete lack of any interaction that might reasonably be expected to lead to feelings of concern and affection, so Grantaire doesn't bother pausing it, he just slides off the bed and walks barefoot across the room to pull the door open without even checking the peephole. Behind him, the earnestness of the confessions are reaching ridiculous heights, and Grantaire can't help but roll his eyes.

Of course it's Enjolras on the other side of the door, and of course he catches Grantaire mid-eyeroll. His brows snap down into a frown before Grantaire can even say anything, and he'd have thought that the dramatics coming from the TV behind him might have clued Enjolras in, but apparently not. He draws himself up straight, his expression tightening and going stiff.

"I've had my fill of fast food and greasy diners." He pulls at the bottom edge of his jacket and keeps his jaw tight. "If you don't mind, I'd like to choose our venue tonight."

Grantaire just looks at him for a moment, sorting through all the stilted words until he deciphers Enjolras's meaning. "By all means." He bends at the waist, a shallow, mocking bow. "What did you have in mind?"

"There's a restaurant in town that comes highly recommended. _Bijoux._ I've already called for reservations."

"Of course you have." He waves a hand when Enjolras's frown starts to deepen into puzzlement. "It's fine, Apollo. I'll go choke down escargot with you if that's what you want. I assume this is a classy affair?"

The corners of Enjolras's mouth tightens like he's fighting back an unpleasant comment. "It's not sandals-and-band-tees, if that's what you mean."

Grantaire gives a sharp nod. "Right. Then you'll have to excuse me so I can go make myself presentable. What time is the reservation?"

"I made it for seven. We should leave by six-thirty."

That's not long. Just a few hours. "I'll meet you in the lobby then." He closes the door in Enjolras's face and scrambles across the room to grab his phone and hit his speed dial.

"This is Éponine."

"Ep." Grantaire pins the phone to his ear with his shoulder and digs through his luggage for shoes that aren't his sandals. "It's your job to serve as a go-between for communication between me and my editor, right? To smooth through any conversations that might be awkward or uncomfortable or too personal for us to have face-to-face?"

There's a silent pause and then Éponine's sharp sigh. "That is technically correct, yes. But why do I get the feeling that you're not asking for business purposes?"

"If he's taking me out to some fancy French place on the publisher's dime, that counts as business purposes, doesn't it?"

"I'm your agent, R. You hired me to represent your books, not your love life."

"It's not a _date_." He hisses it out between his teeth and that's probably unfair to Éponine, but he can't help it. His heart is racing and his hands are a little sweaty and he feels like a teenager again, hyperventilating before his first date, and it angers him just as much as it unsettles him. It's not Éponine's fault, but he knows she won't hold it against him if he lashes out because of it, and that's why he loves her. "It's just Enjolras being pretentious again. Apparently being subjected to a few nights in a row of diner food is _wearing_ on him, the poor dear."

She hums quietly over the line, noncommittal. "So what's the problem?"

"God, you _know_ what the problem is."

"I'm not sure what you think I'm going to be able to do about it."

"I don't know, call him up, tell him he's being cruel to his poor, beleaguered writer and it's completely unprofessional of him to take me out to a fancy private dinner."

Éponine sighs. "Editors take their writers out to dinner all the time, you know."

"You're not helping."

"Have a good time, R. Drink lots of expensive wine on someone else's tab."

That, at least, sounds promising. "I packed _jeans_ , Ep. Jeans and threadbare t-shirts and socks with holes in them. They won't even let me through the door of a place like he's got in mind."

"I guess you'd better go shopping, then, hadn't you?" She sounds delighted, the traitor.

"Where can I get a suit on short notice in this town?"

"How am I supposed to know that? Use Google, like everyone else in the world. Or call the hotel concierge."

The concierge sounds promising. "You're worth every penny I pay you, Ep. Every single penny."

Her laughter is clear and bright. "And don't you forget it. I expect a full report on your date tomorrow morning."

"It's not a date. And I've got a signing tomorrow morning."

"You'll just have to figure out how to make time for me, then, won't you?" She sends him a kiss across the line. "Go on, have fun. Try not to drink so much that you forget the whole evening."

"I make no promises."

The line goes dead on her laughter. He drops the cell phone into his pocket and grabs the room phone to call the front desk and ask for the concierge.

#

Three hours later, he's got a blazer, a crisp white dress shirt, dress pants, and even a pair of shiny black shoes, and thanks to the excellent advice of the concierge, he managed to buy it all without making his bank account cry too badly.

The clothes are uncomfortable and he kind of hates them -- the whole point of being a writer is that he _doesn't_ have to dress up for his job -- but at least he won't embarrass Enjolras with his ultra-casual wardrobe. It seems a minor miracle, but he's ready by six-twenty-five and makes his way down to the lobby right on time, tugging at the edge of his blazer and making faces at his reflection in the elevator's shiny walls. The shoes pinch his toes and the blazer pulls strangely across his shoulders and if this _were_ a date, he'd give serious consideration to just not showing up.

But it's not a date. It's Enjolras. He sighs and squares his shoulder as the elevator dings his arrival at the ground floor and the doors slide open. He can hate it all he likes, he tells himself as he steps out and makes his way toward the front of the lobby, but he's going to keep it to himself for the duration of dinner.

Enjolras's brows climb as Grantaire makes his way to him. Something that might be the hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, but he sweeps it away almost immediately beneath his usual implacable expression.

He waits until Grantaire has just about reached him to speak. "You packed all that for a simple book tour?"

"I did not, as a matter of fact." Grantaire quirks a brow at him. "Does this mean we can expense this, too?"

Enjolras laughs, honestly laughs. That alone is worth the expense of the clothing. "I'll see what sort of strings I can pull." He fishes the rental's keys out of his pocket and raises a brow in question. "Shall we?"

"By all means. I'm starved. Does this place serve appetizers?"

"They have an _amuse-bouche_ selection." Grantaire just looks at him, blank, until Enjolras sighs and smiles indulgently. "There will be plenty to eat, R. I'm not going to let you starve."

"Good, or I might start gnawing off a limb, and that's going to make writing you more bestsellers a little bit difficult."

Enjolras gives him a sideways glance and a passing smile. Grantaire leans back in the passenger seat and hopes that sitting in it isn't going to wrinkle his blazer. If he's only going to look presentable once in his life, it would be a shame for him to ruin it before the evening's even started.

The restaurant, when Enjolras pulls up before it, turns out to be just as French and just as fancy as Grantaire assumed. They've got valets waiting out front to open their doors just as soon as Enjolras stops beside the curb, and Grantaire shakes his head as he waits on the sidewalk while Enjolras deals with getting the valet ticket.

"There's an array of options between greasy-spoon diner and _this_ , you know."

Enjolras lifts a shoulder as they make their way inside the restaurant. "It came highly recommended, and it seemed a shame not to take advantage of being in the area." He gives Grantaire another sidelong glance. "You could have stayed at the hotel and had room service, you know. You didn't have to come."

"And leave you to eat at a table for one?" Grantaire presses his hand over his chest as he shakes his head. "I couldn't subject you to that fate. Besides, I wanted to see if this place was really as pretentious as it sounded. Thankfully, it does not seem inclined to disappoint." His smile is bright and teasing and it makes Enjolras look weary.

There isn't any escargot on the menu, which makes Grantaire protest about whether it's possibly that it's actually a French restaurant in the first place. Instead, it's one of those ultra-modern places with bite-sized portions and food that looks like it came out of the Cubist movement rather than any sort of culinary school. 

"If you don't like it, we can always get you something else on the way home," Enjolras says, strained, when Grantaire laughs himself sick over a dish that's basically just flavored foam drifting atop a shallow slick of broth.

"I'm not saying it doesn't taste good," Grantaire says, because it does. "I'm just saying, _pretentious_. How can it not be, when waiters start talking about elevating food to new heights? When the chef has apparently decided to eschew the traditional use of food as a source of caloric sustenance and make it all about the _flavor profiles_?"

"It's non-traditional, that doesn't mean it's--"

"I saw that menu." Grantaire punctuates his point with a jab of his fork through the air. "I saw those prices. You can't tell me that this isn't just a little bit elitist, when what they're charging for _foam_ is enough to feed a family for a week."

Enjolras's eyes narrow, and his fingers tighten around the handle of his spoon. "Did you get a look at that wine list, too? You don't seem to mind _drinking_ enough to feed a family for a week."

Grantaire just gives a loose shrug and settles back in his seat, twirling the stem of the wine glass between his fingers. "When in Rome, right?"

Enjolras takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He unclenches his fingers from around the silverware and spreads his hands out flat on the tablecloth. Grantaire watches him warily, eyes narrowed, waiting for whatever's coming next. Whatever it is, the fact that Enjolras seems to need to brace himself to broach the topic doesn't seem promising.

"I spoke with St. Cloud Press again this afternoon."

Everything within Grantaire seems to freeze solid, ice crystalizing around him. It takes a great effort to move even enough to simply set his wine glass down on the table again and clear his throat. "You're taking the job." Christ, _that's_ what this was all about. He should have seen it. Enjolras has never, in all the many years they've known each other and worked together, treated Grantaire to dinner at a restaurant quite this nice. But he's definitely the sort to feel a twinge of guilt over abandoning the author who got him started down the path of his career, and who'd try to alleviate that discomfort by taking him out to someplace fancy and expensive first.

Enjolras's brows wrinkle, but he doesn't deny it. Grantaire wants to swear and start smashing the table settings. He wants to take the bottle of wine and retreat to his hotel room and lock the door and drink until he wakes tomorrow with a very expensive hangover.

He wants to throw the bottle at Enjolras's head and scream that this is a betrayal, and that convincing himself otherwise won't change that fact.

"I am inclined to accept their offer," Enjolras says stiffly, his fingers folding around the edge of his napkin. He stares down at it, the creases in his brow deepening slightly. "It's very compelling."

"Well, then I guess congratulations are in order." Grantaire can't help that the words come out dark and bitter. He drains his wine glass grimly.

Enjolras lets out a sharp breath. "Not quite, actually. That's the thing. Their offer comes with certain... conditions."

Grantaire raises his brows in polite inquiry and stabs his fork at the drifts of foam that remain in the bottom of his bowl.

"You." Enjolras says it like it's a death sentence, like it's some sort of grim pronouncement. "I have to bring you with me. They want you, R."

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Grantaire settles back in his seat and watches Enjolras across their table. Even once he's understood the words, their content still doesn't make any sense. "I'm a genre writer."

"You're a _good_ writer," Enjolras says impatiently, like they're two different things. "The way you use words and language, you'd do well in the literary genre."

"I do well in _my_ genre," Grantaire says with a lift of his brows. "The Times seems to think so, anyway."

"Think of the prestige, though. St. Cloud is the most highly-respected publisher in the industry." By which Enjolras means that they're successful enough that it's made them ridiculously elitist, but that's not quite the recommendation that Grantaire suspects Enjolras thinks it is.

"I don't need prestige. And I like writing genre. I'd rather shoot myself than start writing dull books that people have to suffer through just to pass some stupid lit class."

Enjolras looks at him like he's some sort of terrible disappointment. "You could be so much more than you are, Grantaire."

It's all he can do not to start screaming right there in the middle of that fancy restaurant. "Give me your keys."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to go wait in the car."

"Don't do that. God, come on, Grantaire, sit, enjoy the meal--"

Grantaire's voice is low and shaking, at the very limits of his control. He leans forward across the table so he can pitch it lower, quieter, so he doesn't scandalize the whole restaurant when he bites out, "I am one hundred percent serious right now, if you don't want me to say fuck off to this whole god damned tour and catch the next flight home then _give me your fucking keys_ , Enjolras, and maybe try not insulting me and what I do for just five minutes."

Enjolras moves slowly, sighing and looking disappointed again. He pulls the keys out of his pocket, then stops with them wrapped in his hand, half-extended. He waits until Grantaire meets his earnest gaze. "It wasn't meant to be insulting."

"That doesn't change anything." Grantaire holds his palm up beneath Enjolras's hand, and Enjolras opens his fingers and lets the keys fall into his grasp.

"I won't be long, I'll get the rest of the courses wrapped up to go."

"Take your time." Grantaire drops the keys into his pocket and then fists his hand around them, relishing the sharp bite of metal into his skin. It keeps him grounded, centered, keeps him from flying off the handle right there next to their table and getting them both barred from the restaurant for life. "I mean that. I'm really not terribly eager to rehash this conversation, and I'm pretty sure you're going to want to do nothing but as soon as we're back in each other's company, so seriously, take your time." He spins on his heel and stalks out. Maybe if Enjolras lingers over the meal, Grantaire will feel a little less homicidal by the time he comes outside.

Maybe. But Grantaire's pretty sure that it's going to take a hell of a lot longer than the length of half a meal for that to happen.

#

It seems patently unfair for the latter half of his rest day to be spent stewing over Enjolras, but at least their early event in the morning gives Grantaire a good excuse to retire to his room as soon as they return to the hotel, and to ignore the calls and texts from Enjolras that come in on his phone all evening long.

 _Try_ to ignore, anyway. He turns it to silent when the chirp of his incoming-message alert starts to make his shoulders tense every time it plays, and when that just leads to him grabbing up the phone every five minutes to see what new messages have come in, he puts it on airplane mode and plays Angry Birds instead. There's a visceral satisfaction to the game's wanton destruction, and if he imagines Enjolras's face in place of the pigs' as he sends birds and blocks raining down on them, well, that's no one's business but his own.

The event in the morning goes off without a hitch, and someone even arranged for there to be enough hot coffee for everyone. Grantaire's pretty sure that someone was Enjolras, but he doesn't ask, because he's not ready to feel grateful toward him yet. Still, the coffee's delicious and the people are wonderful. Word seems to have gotten out about the doodles he gave people at the last event, and they're in high demand now, so at least he gets to spend his morning doing something a little more entertaining that just writing his name out a hundred times.

There's a second event in the evening, to make up for the lack of one the day before, and it necessitates a harried race across the city and lunch grabbed at the nearest, quickest available fast food. Enjolras even unbends enough to concede that, this one time, risking their rental's pristine interior by eating in the car is, perhaps, a necessity.

Grantaire watches him warily as he gulps down mouthfuls of burrito and waits for the inevitable commentary about low-brow food and appealing to the least common denominator and how it's not even really _Mexican_ food anyway but he probably knows some darling little hole-in-the-wall that knows the real meaning of authenticity and blah, blah, blah.

He waits, but Enjolras says nothing. Occasionally, Grantaire catches his gaze on him, but every time he does so Enjolras jerks it back to the road and starts muttering irritated statistics beneath his breath about how driving distracted is just as dangerous as driving drunk.

Grantaire holds his tongue, because Enjolras looks like he's ready to drive himself to a nervous fit as it is, and he figures that, just this once, he probably doesn't need Grantaire to help it along.

The evening event runs long, which Grantaire is starting to suspect is just going to be the norm for this tour. By the time the bookstore's employees lock up behind them, Grantaire's not sure if he's more hungry or tired. He thinks about tempting his luck and asking Enjolras to stop for take-out, but passes out with his cheek pressed against the window before they've even made it to the freeway.

He wakes to Enjolras coaxing him out of the car. "Come on, I've called ahead for room service, if it's not in your room already it'll be there momentarily. You have to eat, R, we've another early morning tomorrow and the tour's barely started. You're going to run yourself into the ground if you don't take better care of yourself."

"You ordered food for me?" he asks fuzzily, most of his attention focused on keeping his feet moving forward. "You don't even know what I like."

Enjolras gives a sharp sigh. "Everybody likes hamburgers."

"With pickles."

"I know."

"No mayo. And extra mustard." His preferences are weird, he knows. No one ever guesses them right. He's going to have to choke down a disappointing burger and he's not even going to be able to say anything about it because the fact that Enjolras ordered it for him in the first place is so unexpectedly touching that Grantaire can't bear to make him think it isn't appreciated.

But Enjolras just sighs again and ushers him into the elevator. "I _know_ , R. I've ordered fast food with you enough over the past week to be aware of how you like your hamburgers. Now will you stop fighting me about this?"

Grantaire wasn't aware he _was_ fighting, but he holds back that thought and lets Enjolras steer him down the hall and into his hotel room.

The food is already there, steaming and making the whole room smell fabulous. Grantaire's stomach asserts its demands with a sudden growl loud enough that Enjolras gives him an amused look. Grantaire drops down onto the edge of the bed, pulls the tray over, and inhales it.

There's a small salad on the other side of the tray that Grantaire's pretty sure isn't meant for him, because if Enjolras has been paying attention enough to know how Grantaire likes his burgers, then he must have been paying attention enough to notice that Grantaire hasn't once ordered a side salad with any of the meals they've eaten together. His suspicions are proved correct when Enjolras takes the plate up and sits down on the edge of the bed with Grantaire, enough distance between them that they've both got elbow room.

"You eat like a bird," Grantaire says. The edge of his hunger has dulled enough that he can pause long enough to swirl a french fry through ketchup. "I'm not the only one getting up at dark o'clock, how is that going to be fueling?"

"That's an inappropriate simile, birds eat anywhere from half to one hundred percent of their body weight a day, with variation between species of course."

"Of course," Grantaire says, deadpan.

"And salads are very nutritious."

"Maybe if you're a _rabbit_."

"Eat your food, Grantaire."

Grantaire eats. When he's finished, Enjolras takes his salad plate and excuses himself to his own room, and Grantaire manages to keep his eyes open long enough to wrestle out of his clothes and into pajamas. He pulls the blankets up and turns the lights out, pleasantly full and more than a little taken aback by the circumstances of it.

It's not enough to make him ditch the genre he love for one that bores him to tears. But it's enough to make him wish, however briefly, that he liked literary fiction better than he does. Éponine can say what she likes, but Enjolras is a great editor, and hardly ever awful at all. Trying to find a new one is going to be such a bummer.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day brings with it another early morning and another visit to another airport. Grantaire staggers down to meet Enjolras in the lobby without having to be bribed, though Enjolras has a to-go cup of coffee waiting for him all the same.

It's a little disturbing how familiar this routine is getting. He remembers that there used to be a time when he rolled out of bed at eleven and wasn't functional before noon, but it's with the dim sort of haziness of distant memories. His whole world feels like it's been whittled down to early mornings, to rental cars and airport terminals and an endless series of hotel rooms that have begun to blur with one another until they all seem the same.

It's all starting to feel normal, living like this, and he would be more distressed by that thought if it weren't for the certainty that he's only managing half so well because of Enjolras and his inimitable ability to make things run like clockwork. If Grantaire were doing this on his own, he suspects he'd be a walking disaster.

He tries not to think about the fact that doing this alone was the original plan, that Enjolras is only here as a last-minute addition.

Several days and several more events pass by as they make their way down the East Coast. They're mostly unremarkable and mostly pleasant, aside from the godawful early mornings, which Grantaire refuses to believe will ever be anything but torturous. Still, Grantaire struggles to enjoy them properly because he's pretty sure that the only reason they're decent at all is because for whatever reason Enjolras has decided to hold his tongue on the matter of St. Cloud.

Sometimes, Grantaire glances over at him in the middle of an event, or between levels of Candy Crush while they're killing time before their flight boards, and Enjolras has that pinched, distant look on is face, and Grantaire knows that he's thinking about it. Thinking about the job offer, thinking about the opportunity, thinking about the fact that Grantaire's refusal to write books that he hates is the only thing keeping Enjolras from the career that he wants.

Sometimes Enjolras is watching him, rather than staring into space, and instead of being distant his gaze is sharp and focused, intent, and Grantaire knows he wants to say something. Sometimes Grantaire catches him with his mouth open, drawing breath to speak, only to shut it again and let the moment pass in silence.

Grantaire figures it's probably a sign of cowardice on his own part that he doesn't seize upon any one of these opportunities to ask Enjolras what's on his mind and give him an opening to speak, but Grantaire can't bear the thought of ruining their uneasy truce by pushing him to speak his mind. Enjolras has never in all the years Grantaire has known him been the sort to keep silent when he has something to say, so Grantaire figures he'll come out with it just as soon as he's ready, and who is Grantaire to try to drag it out of him before then?

It's definitely cowardice, but Grantaire doesn't mind being a coward for the sake of maintaining the fragile peace between them.

A week in, their schedule gives them another rest day, the first since the previous one, and Grantaire's so relieved he spends a long moment on the airplane, thinking about the fact that he doesn't have anywhere to be once they land, and considers crying a little bit. Or maybe going out and spending the whole day drinking.

He's not the only one who needs the break, either. Enjolras is still flawlessly competent at everything, but his edges are starting to ravel. It wouldn't be apparently to anyone who didn't know him as well as Grantaire does, but Grantaire can see it in the growing tension at the corners of Enjolras's mouth, the way he's quicker to snap at airline personnel who fail to meet his standards of performance, the way he drums his fingers against the arm of his seat and starts ordering ginger ale on the plane instead of his usual ice water. An afternoon spent catching HBO movies in his hotel room will do him a world of good, Grantaire thinks. And an evening out will do _Grantaire_ a world of good.

As soon as he's showered the airport off of himself, Grantaire makes his way to Enjolras's hotel room and knocks on the door.

It takes Enjolras a moment to answer the door. His brows lift when he sees Grantaire standing on the other side, polite, mildly-curious inquiry.

"I need the car keys."

That makes his brows climb higher and his attention focus sharply on Grantaire. "Why?"

Grantaire sighs. "Because I want to go somewhere." He holds his hand out and clears his throat significantly. "Hand them over."

"Where are you going? You're meant to use these rest days to actually _rest_ , R. You'll never make it through the tour if you don't take some down time."

"Duly noted." It takes everything Grantaire has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Now give them up. You're obviously not going anywhere, you don't need them."

And _that_ makes Enjolras frown. Grantaire represses a sigh and drops his hand back to his side. Enjolras is clearly not going to give the keys up without a fight. "Am I not? If you're going out drinking, you're going to need a designated driver."

"One, I resent the assumption that I couldn't possibly be going out for any reason but to drink. Two, I severely resent the implication that I'd get behind the wheel while inebriated. Three, _give me the keys_ , Enjolras."

Enjolras rolls his eyes like Grantaire's the one being unreasonable. "Come in," he says shortly and turns away, striding into the hotel room.

Grantaire steps inside, but doesn't go much farther than the entryway. He does take the opportunity to glance around the room, though. Enjolras has his suitcase laid out on the little stand in the room that Grantaire usually ignores in favor of just tossing his bag on the bed and spreading his things out across the comforter. Everything is neat and tidy and precise and it makes Grantaire lean back against the wall and laugh helplessly because it's so _Enjolras_ he can hardly stand it.

That makes Enjolras turn back and frown like he thinks maybe Grantaire is laughing at him, so when he says, "I'm just asking because I'm curious, R. Where are you going?", Grantaire gives a sharp sigh, tunnels his fingers through his hair, and concedes defeat.

"Jean Prouvaire's doing a reading tonight the next town over, _christ_. Are you satisfied now or should I give you the complete itinerary? I don't know it, sad to say, but I could make something up if it would ease your mind."

"Prouvaire?" Enjolras's frown deepens to puzzlement and he just fixes it on Grantaire like he's trying to figure him out, like it's some great enigma why Grantaire might want to spend his down time at another reading when his life has been full to bursting with them, these days.

"He's a friend," Grantaire says defensively, his shoulders drawing up, tense and unhappy. "Well, an internet friend, anyway. We've never had the opportunity to get together in person, and he's doing a reading tonight, and I'm close enough to drive, so there's really no reason for me _not_ to go see my friend and support him. Unless you continue to refuse to give me the damn car keys, in which case I suppose I'll have to email him and tell him why I wasn't able to make it, but seriously, Enjolras, just give me the keys, I'm a big boy, I promise I can make it there and back without wrecking the car."

Enjolras has a hand in his pocket, fiddling with something in there that must be the keys in question, and if Grantaire were a bolder sort he'd just slide in close and reach his hand in there and take them for his own. But his nerve fails him at that, so he just settles for scowling at Enjolras and waiting until he heaves a great sigh and pulls his keychain out.

"I'd like to come with you," he says as he hands them over, and Grantaire stops contemplating the fastest route of escape long enough to snap his gaze up to Enjolras's and stare at him.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, but bites back the impulse to swear out loud. They've been practically joined at the hip ever since Enjolras showed up at his first reading, and if anything, Grantaire was looking forward to the opportunity to get away, to get a clear breath of air that isn't colored by the fog of his infatuation and just be with other people for an evening.

Still, he can't help but recall all the fidgeting Enjolras has been doing lately, the little signs of restlessness and boredom. If what Enjolras needs is to get out, rather than to stay in, Grantaire's not so cruel nor so churlish as to refuse to allow Enjolras to accompany him _and_ remove his only source of escape in one go.

"Sure," he says at last, when he's sure he can make the word come out without any hint of resentment. He rakes Enjolras over with a look and grins. "Are you going to wear that? Jehan's not really the dress-shirt-and-slacks sort, as I understand it."

"He may not be," Enjolras says, a little stiff, "but I am, and that's what I'm going to wear."

"All right, as you like it." Grantaire shrugs and closes his fingers around the keys before Enjolras can get it into his head to take them back. "I'm driving."

" _R._ "

"Oh, no, come off it, Apollo, seriously. It won't kill you to let someone else take the wheel for an evening, and if I have to sit in that passenger seat one more time with nothing to do but watch the suburbs whizz by, I'm going to have a psychotic break and probably go on a killing spree or something equally terrible for my publicity."

Enjolras opens his mouth, shuts it without making a sound, and sighs as he gives his head a hard shake. "Fine," he says, short and curt. "But I expect you to obey the posted speed limits."

"Someone really needs to introduce you to the concept of living a little. This is positively tragic," Grantaire says, and it's not a refusal, so Enjolras gives a satisfied nod and seems to take it as the acceptance that it is.

"You can play naviguesser," he says when the valet's brought the car around and they've both climbed in. He drops his phone into Enjolras's lap. "The address is already programmed in, just tell me when to turn and which direction."

Enjolras unlocks his phone and looks down at it, a bemused little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You can set these things to give you the instructions themselves, you know," he says at last, tapping on the screen, and it's all Grantaire can do not to lean over and see what he's doing. "It's kind of the whole point behind them."

"Sure, but why would I want to listen to some awkward computer-generated voice barking at me like a robot when I could have your mellifluous tones barking at me instead?"

Enjolras's expression twists like he can't decide whether that was a compliment or an insult and isn't sure how to respond either way, besides, so Grantaire just laughs and pulls the car out of the hotel driveway. "Okay, Apollo, this is an easy one to start you off. Left or right?"

"Left," Enjolras says, and squints down at the phone, and Grantaire thinks it's a good thing he gave himself enough time to fight with Enjolras for the keys and still make it on time, because he's starting to suspect that Enjolras's mellifluous tones are going to be pretty much the only thing he has going for him as a navigator.

They don't get lost, not exactly, but there are a few too many hurried instructions given at the last minute, and Grantaire's fingers are white around the steering wheel and his ears are ringing from the latest car to go whizzing past them with its horn blaring. "Jesus Christ," he gasps when they pull up to a red stoplight and he finally as a chance to breathe. "I have driven with you every day for weeks and you've always been a perfectly competent navigator. What the hell is going on tonight? Are you having a stroke? Am I going to have to find my own way to the nearest hospital?"

Enjolras scowls at him. "It's easy to navigate for yourself, you always know what your directions mean. And I review the route on the plane before we land so there aren't any surprises."

"Oh my god, of course you do." Grantaire leans his forehead against the steering wheel and laughs weakly. "You're going to give me grey hair, Apollo. I hope it makes me look distinguished."

Enjolras surveys him critically, like he's trying to decide, and that's really more than Grantaire can bear. He turns the radio on and cranks the music up and doesn't capitulate to Enjolras's exasperated demands to turn it down, or off, not even when Ke$ha starts playing, and Enjolras looks physically pained.

Let him deal with listening to something silly and fluffy and undeniably popular, for a little while. It'll be character-building.

Without Enjolras's directions, Grantaire manages to get them to the bookstore where Jehan is having his reading half an hour late, but with considerably fewer panicked, last-minute lane changes. The store is an indie one with an emphasis on poetry called _Between the Lines_ , and the event seems to have only begun to hit its stride, despite their tardiness.

Jehan is wearing a utility kilt and a button-up shirt under a waistcoat, he's got long hair plaited into a braid over his shoulder and battered combat boots, and he's reciting free-verse poetry about blood and death and decay in a soft, lovely voice. Grantaire grins as soon as he takes him in, and says to Enjolras, "Oh my god, sublet my apartment, I've found my people."

The audience is a mixed sort, some dressed rather more conservatively while others seem to share in Jehan's penchant for a mismatched style that's all their own. Enjolras looks them over with a dubious frown and murmurs back, "Your people wear kilts and boots and braids and eyeliner? I didn't take you for the sort."

Grantaire's grin doesn't fade a bit. "Nah, too much upkeep. But they're all weirdos, it's wonderful." And he wades forward as Jehan's poem winds to its morbid close to introduce himself.

Jehan is a delight, as bright and bubbly as his poetry is dark and grim, and somehow, though they've never exchanged photos, he beams as soon as Grantaire gets close and hops off his stool. "R?" he says, and Grantaire has barely started to confirm it before Jehan has him wrapped in an embrace. "You came!"

Grantaire hugs him back and then extricates himself, grinning. "Of course I did. I said I would."

"I know you did, but that was before--" He glances sideways at Enjolras and breaks off to face him and thrust his hand out in effusive greeting. "Jean Prouvaire. Jehan, rather. No one calls me Jean unless they're mad at me, and I haven't known you long enough to have pissed you off yet. I hope."

Enjolras looks baffled but shakes Jehan's hand politely. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Prouvaire."

"Oh god, that's worse than Jean." Jehan clutches his heart and looks wounded.

"Don't worry," Grantaire says. "I can personally attest that no one in the world has the ability to piss Apollo off that fast but me. You're safe."

That makes Enjolras frown at him, but before he can say anything else someone with a stripe of hair dyed an eye-searing shade of chartreuse edges up and murmurs something in Jehan's ear that makes him clap his hands and cry, "Oh! Take a seat, they're ready to play. You're going to like this, R." He glances sidelong at Enjolras and grins. "I'm not sure about your tastes, but I'd guess that it might not exactly be up your alley. I hope you'll like it, though. Bossuet and Musichetta put on quite a show."

Bossuet plays the drum, it turns out, the traditional sort with fur still clinging around the edge of the hide that's been used for the drum skin, with an hourglass shape meant to be clutched between the knees, and he sets up a steady rhythm with it that runs like an undercurrent through the crowd, rapid and insistent and making Grantaire's pulse beat faster by its sheer presence.

Musichetta dances. She's sinuous and graceful and lovely, until she pulls out knives from half a dozen hidden sheaths and makes them fly around her. The audience responds to the flash of steel and the sharp edge of her smile and Bossuet's primal rhythm, and Grantaire would be halfway in love if his heart hadn't already belonged to another, and if it weren't obvious that Jehan was already completely gone on the both of them.

The crowd applauds wildly when they finish their show, and Enjolras claps too, though he's got a bit of a frown, like he can't help but worry about the danger Musichetta's knives posed to the books on the shelves around them. Grantaire nudges him with his elbow to jostle him out of it, then hoots and hollers as Jehan moves to take their place and read another poem.

This one makes Enjolras's frown deepen. Grantaire's not sure he understands it -- it's some sort of hyper-modern thing, and Grantaire suspects that if he were cleverer he'd be able to recognize its brilliance -- but he knows that it doesn't deserve a scowl like that, so he jostles Enjolras again, and gives him a knock-that-off look when Enjolras turns his frown onto him.

"I'm not saying he should stick to the traditional forms of sonnets and villanelles," he mutters, facing forward again, "but there's something to be said for learning the rules and the reasons for them before you decide to break them. He doesn't even have any consistent meter."

"Shut up," Grantaire says happily. This time, the look Enjolras turns on him is a scowl. "Just because you can't appreciate it doesn't mean it's wrong. Look at these people, they're having a ball."

Enjolras actually obeys, glancing around the room and taking in the people who are listening to Jehan with rapt attention, beaming at a particularly clever turn of phrase and gasping in all the right places (or at least what Grantaire assumes are the right places, he still can't quite figure the poem out, but he knows he likes it). And, wonder of wonders, Enjolras actually shuts up after that, and lets the others enjoy themselves without his running commentary.

During the next interlude, someone sets up a card table and starts making cocktails. It's something red and sweet and surprisingly boozy, and when Grantaire sees Enjolras wander over to the table and take one for himself, he's torn between delight that Enjolras is _actually drinking_ , and the sudden impulse to go to him and snatch the plastic cup out of his hands, because he doesn't have a death wish and at least one of them needs to be sober enough to get them home at the end of the event.

Enjolras doesn't drink much, thankfully, he just sips at the cocktail and uses the cup in his hand to fend off offers of more. To Grantaire's surprise, though, he does seem to loosen up after Grantaire's scolding, and Grantaire's pretty sure the alcohol has nothing to do with it, unless he's the biggest lightweight in the world.

It's strange to see Enjolras like this, as part of the party rather than distanced from it. At Grantaire's events, he's always held back and kept a supervisory eye on things, and all Grantaire's exhortations that he should join the rest of them and actually get a chance to enjoy the events that he's spent so much time working on are met with a slight smile and a shake of the head, and insistence that he just needs to go off and check on this one last detail.

This isn't Enjolras's event, though. He's had no hand in planning it and he has no role in ensuring it runs smoothly. He has nothing to oversee, so this time he actually participates. He makes conversation with people and, when Jehan is finished, compliments his reading, and even actually manages to sound sincere about it. Grantaire beams at him over Jehan's shoulder, as proud as he's ever been.

"Look at you," he murmurs later when they're out of earshot. "All grown up and making nice."

Enjolras rolls his eyes and doesn't grace that with a comment, and it just makes Grantaire grin harder.

It's late when the party breaks up and they all leave. Someone had laid out finger foods on the card table once all the drinks had been claimed, and they've kept the edge off of Grantaire's hunger, but they're not a full meal, and as Enjolras drives them back across the city, Grantaire's stomach asserts its demands with a growl that seems practically deafening in the quiet car.

"Christ." Grantaire scrubs his hands over his eyes. He had more than his fair share of cocktails at Jehan's event, and he's feeling it now. "I could eat an elephant."

Enjolras hums a noncommittal sound and glances at the clock display on the car's dash. "We're not going to find many places open at this hour."

There's always fast food drive-through, but Enjolras as been remarkably pleasant tonight and Grantaire figures he shouldn't discourage that behavior by trying to push Enjolras into eating somewhere he hates. He pulls out his phone instead, and brings up an app that will show restaurants near their location and let him filter for places that are currently open.

The long list of nearby places dwindles to less than a handful when he applies the filter, but at least it's not nothing. One is halfway across the city, back the way they came, but there's another that's just a few miles ahead, hardly out of their way at all, so Grantaire gives directions to it and Enjolras doesn't even put up a token protest. Grantaire eyes him and wonders out loud, before he can stop himself, if Enjolras has been replaced by a pod person.

The restaurant is called Cafe Athena and it's a tiny little hole-in-the-wall place with pictures of Greece on the walls and a decorating scheme done in blue and white. There's vaguely Greek-sounding music coming over the radio (Grantaire is not sure what traditional Greek music sounds like, but it seems to suit the atmosphere of the place, in any case) and, at this late hour, only a very few tables occupied.

There's no host or hostess, just a sign inside the front door that says "Please seat yourselves!", and it's the sort of place that separates the kitchen from the dining room with a waist-high wall and a bit of plexiglass, so they take a table that butts up against the divider and Grantaire watches the cook through the screen while Enjolras taps out something on his phone.

In moments someone is there at their table, a tall, lanky fellow with a formal air to him that is somewhat at odds with the casual atmosphere of the place. He hands them their menus, answers Enjolras's inquiries about what's fresh and what would he recommend and whether they're tolerant of substitutions, and then fades away to let them make their decisions.

Enjolras scours the menu with a ferocious intensity. Grantaire glances at it, sees they have spanakopita, and folds his menu to focus his attention on Enjolras instead, and the way he's hunched over his menu and squinting at it like he suspects it might hold the secrets of the universe if only he can find the key to crack its code.

Their waiter returns after a few moments to take their drink orders. Enjolras asks distractedly for ice water with lemon, and then catches him before he can leave to ask another series of questions about the offerings on the menu.

Grantaire just sits back and watches him struggle to decide, grinning into his own glass of water. "You're not planning the Normandy invasion," he says at last, when Enjolras has made his way through the menus pages for the third time. "Just pick something. If you don't like it, send it back."

Enjolras glances up enough to frown at him. "I'm not going to penalize this place or its cook for my own rashness. If I choose something at random and it turns out I don't like it, that's my fault, not theirs."

"Oh my god, Apollo." Grantaire sighs as he says it, but he also can't help smiling. It's probably the late hour talking, or the drinks, but for tonight at least, all of Enjolras's little quirks seem frightfully endearing, instead of just crazy-making. "Just order the dolmas. I've never had ones that were disappointing, I'm sure you'll like them."

Enjolras hums dubiously and studies the menu for a few more moments, before their waiter returns to hover expectantly beside their table. Grantaire orders his spanakopita and Enjolras, in the end, orders the dolmas, and Grantaire has to drain his water glass to hide the way that makes him beam.

The food, when it comes out, smells divine. Grantaire falls onto his almost immediately, pausing only long enough to thank their waiter and make sure Enjolras's is set down in front of him before he starts inhaling it.

He's going to have to come back here the next time he finds himself in the area, he thinks. The food is delicious, but he's too hungry to take his time and properly appreciate it. He's got half the spanakopita devoured before he comes up for air, and comes back to himself enough to glance across the table and see how Enjolras is getting on with his.

He's eating steadily, if not at quite the voracious pace that Grantaire is, and seems pleased enough with it. When he catches Grantaire looking at him, he lifts his brows, and when Grantaire just gives him a _Well?_ look in return, he rolls his eyes. "It's very authentic," Enjolras says, like it's the highest praise he can bestow upon the place.

Grantaire laughs hard and gestures around them at the restaurant and its interior, its decor and its atmosphere. "You don't say. I could have told you that five seconds after we stepped through the door."

"I've learned not to get my hopes up prematurely."

Grantaire grins at him across their plates and kicks his shin lightly beneath the table. "Can it be that we've finally found a place that's food is pedigreed enough to please you, and whose demeanor is casual enough for me? Cancel the rest of the tour, we're going to have to buy a house here and put up a white picket fence and have two-point-one kids and never leave."

"That hardly seems like a reasonable sort of decision," Enjolras says distantly, like he doesn't care or like something else has caught his attention. He's fishing filling out from the middle of his dolmas and mixing it with tsatziki sauce, which Grantaire thinks is a little hypocritical from someone as concerned with authenticity as he is.

"The hell with reason. I'm never going to leave this place."

A great, booming laugh makes them both startle and turn. There's a heavyset man with a round face and a friendly grin standing by their table looking on them. "We would love to have you, my friend," he says in a voice that screams Greece. "But I'm afraid the health department looks down on this sort of thing."

Grantaire answers the man's grin with his own. "It can be our little secret. Just give me a blanket and a pillow under the counter in the back and no one will ever have to know."

Enjolras humphs wordless dubiousness and the man turns his attention from Grantaire. "But how is everything?" he inquires of them both. "Are you enjoying your evening? Is there anything I can get you?"

Grantaire compliments the food and insists he doesn't need anything. Enjolras shoots him a look that could mean any number of things, and then addresses the man. "He was just saying he wanted a coffee. If you wouldn't mind?"

"Enjolras, no."

They both ignore Grantaire entirely. The man grins at him. "Of course! Do you want Turkish coffee?"

Enjolras looks thoughtful. "What's the difference?"

"Turkish coffee is very strong, a little sweet. It's good." He gestures at Grantaire with a tip of his head. "He'll like it."

"He's picky about his coffee," Enjolras warns.

"On the house, then," the man says, and winks. "You try it, and if you don't like it, I'll make you whatever you want, complementary."

He bustles off before Grantaire can respond, as though the matter's already decided. "Decaf!" Grantaire calls after him. He turns around halfway to the kitchen and clutches at his heart with a tragic face. Grantaire groans. "Fine, half-caf, you horrible person."

The man disappears into the kitchen and Grantaire settles back into his seat, frowning at Enjolras. "I could have waited for my coffee."

Enjolras shrugs easily and pushes a bit of ground lamb around his plate with the tines of his fork. "He was here. He asked."

"You do realize that was the owner, right? Not another waiter?"

Enjolras just shrugs again. Grantaire shakes his head and turns his attention back to finishing his meal.

A few minutes later, the owner comes by with a small white-and-blue ceramic cup filled with dark, fragrant coffee. Grantaire thanks him, but he hovers by their table with a grin, obviously waiting to see how Grantaire likes it, so he takes a sip and promptly chokes on it.

The man beams like it's the best compliment Grantaire could have paid him and claps him on the back. "That will grow hair on your chest, yes? You drink it, tell me if you want more."

And then he's gone and Grantaire is eyeing the coffee, wondering if drinking any more is going to leave him unable to get to sleep for the next five hours, half-caf notwithstanding.

He settles for sipping at it cautiously while he waits for Enjolras to finish his dolmas. When his plate's clean, their waiter reappears to gather their dishes and offer them the dessert menu. He's halfway through clearing the table when he sees Grantaire's coffee cup and frowns down at it. "When did you order that?"

"I didn't, exactly."

The waiter turns his frown on Enjolras, who tips his head toward where the owner is now standing at another table, carrying on an enthusiastic conversation in rapid-fire Greek. "He brought it. We asked for coffee, he said we could try it free."

The waiter looks where Enjolras has indicated, and when he sees the owner he just sighs, shuts his eyes, and gives his head a little shake. "Of course he did," he murmurs, and then seems to recall himself. "Would you gentlemen like any dessert?"

"Baklava," Grantaire and Enjolras both say at the same time, without looking at the dessert menu. The waiter lifts his brows at them, and Grantaire grins across the table.

"Do you want a whole one, Apollo? We could share, if you're not in the mood for excess. If I have to eat a whole one all by myself, I'm just going to end up finishing it for breakfast tomorrow, and that sugar crash is bound to be ugly."

Enjolras agrees, and in minutes they're both bent forward over a plate of baklava, fighting each other off with their forks as they devour it between them. Grantaire lets Enjolras have the last bite, and scrapes the honey off the plate to suck from the tines of his fork while he watches Enjolras hum with simple pleasure.

With dessert completed, Grantaire is pleasantly full, and the Turkish coffee has chased exhaustion back to the edges of his awareness. Once the waiter's brought the check and they've paid, there's nothing left to do but to pay their compliments to the owner once more and then make their way outside into the cold and the dark that's waiting for them.

Grantaire dozes a little in the car, he can't help it, not when it's this late and Enjolras insists on listening to slow, moody music that does absolutely nothing to help keep him alert. He rouses halfway home when Enjolras murmurs across the darkness, "I'm sorry for crashing your evening."

Grantaire pushes himself up from the slump he's slid into and frowns at Enjolras's profile. "You didn't crash it."

Enjolras glances at him briefly before returning his attention to the road.

"Enjolras," Grantaire says, because Enjolras always listens to him better when he uses his name rather than a nickname. "I'm glad you invited yourself along, if that's what you're worried about. I had a great time, and you're a large part of why."

Enjolras's expression twists like he doesn't believe it. "You have a strange idea of a good time."

"Did you not enjoy yourself?"

"I did." Enjolras sounds just the littlest bit surprised by that, and Grantaire might take it upon himself to be insulted, except that he sounds pleased by it, too. "Go on back to your nap, R, you need all the sleep you can get."

Grantaire obeys and slips back into his light doze easily. But once they've reached the hotel, he lets himself into his room and flops on his back in the bed.

It's dark and it's late and the room is silent but for the occasional hum of the mini-fridge. Every minute he's awake is another bit of agony he's going to have to suffer when his alarm goes off in the morning, but his brain is buzzing with excitement from Jehan and the reading and the music, from Musichetta's flashing blades and the flush that colored Enjolras's cheeks after only one drink, and most likely from the Turkish coffee, too. His buzz has worn off but there's no hangover yet drumming at his skull and he's happier than he can remember being in quite a while. He lays in the dark and beams at his ceiling and knows he's an idiot, but not even that can keep the grin at bay.


	6. Chapter 6

Two stops on and halfway to the third, Grantaire is drowning out an unhappy infant in the back of the plane with noise-canceling headphones and tapping out some unenthusiastic brainstorming for a potential new book idea purely to keep himself from going postal out of sheer boredom. He's not sure it's quite gelling the way it would need to if he were going to actually pursue it, but he got started writing because of his penchant for killing time by coming up with interesting characters and figuring out ways to get them into trouble, and it's been a stand-by of his ever since.

A light touch on his forearm makes him look away from the screen to Enjolras sitting next to him, watching him with his brows lifted in mostly-patient expectation.

Grantaire pushes the headphones down to hang around his neck. "Need me to let you squeeze by so you can stretch your legs? Just give me a second to move my stuff out of the way." This flight, they've been blessed with an empty third seat beside theirs. Enjolras took the window seat because he likes the view, and Grantaire moved to the middle seat when the lady on the other side of the aisle seemed a bit too keen on straining her neck around to try to read over his shoulder as he typed, but that leaves the aisle seat as a handy place to store their things when it would be inconvenient to shove them under their seats every time they need them out of the way.

He's already saving his document in anticipation of moving out of Enjolras's way (there's little point in it, he's not likely to write this book, but habit and a bit of obsessive terror of losing something he might want to use at some point down the line has him hitting save compulsively; he's a digital pack rat, and he feels no shame), but Enjolras is shaking his head and stilling Grantaire with a hand on top of his before he can flip his laptop shut. "No, it's not that. I wanted to talk to you about rearranging our schedule a little bit."

"You're the boss." Grantaire shrugs with one shoulder and stretches his legs out as far underneath the seat in front of him as he can without earning a dirty look from the woman sitting in it. "There's a reason why I've let you handle these things so far, and it's because I really don't care one way or another. Tell me where to show up and when, keep me in a steady supply of coffee, and I'll go wherever you tell me."

"St. Cloud has an office half an hour out from our hotel room. They're throwing a party this evening and they'd like you to come."

Grantaire's good mood evaporates, leaves him scowling and snatching his headphones off from around his neck because he suddenly feels like he's being strangled. "No."

"R." Enjolras sighs and shuts his eyes like he's fighting for patience, and Grantaire thinks with a distant sense of regret, _Well, so much for our truce, then. It was nice while it lasted._

"I'm pretty sure our schedule has me driving around to the bookstores in the area and signing stock so people who can't make it to the reading this afternoon can still get their hands on a signed copy. Give me one good reason why I should short-change my fans for the sake of a publisher who doesn't respect the work I do."

Enjolras's brows pull into a frown. "Of course they respect your work. That's why they want you."

"They want me because I sell, apparently, and no, they don't. My work is genre, and they don't respect that any more than you do. They want me in spite of what I write, not because of it. And that's not an answer."

"It's a party, Grantaire, not a marriage proposal. And they'll have booze, when have you ever turned down free booze?"

Grantaire sucks air through his teeth, swift and sharp. "Fuck you," he snarls, but keeps his voice low in deference to the children and the parents on the plane. "You're a bastard if you think that the promise of a buzz is going to be enough to convince me to suffer through being patronized and talked down to. I'm not that fucking desperate, Apollo. But apparently you are."

He shoves his headphones back over his ears and turns on some fast, angry music, and cranks the volume up to unwise levels. In his peripheral vision, Enjolras is leaning toward him, his mouth forming words and his brows drawn down, but Grantaire ignores him in favor of shutting the document with his previous brainstorming and creating a new one where he grimly plots a nuclear holocaust dystopia and an endless series of torments for its golden-haired protagonist.

He doesn't come up until the flight attendants come by to make sure they've all got their electronics stowed away for landing. He expects Enjolras to pounce on the opportunity to have him as a captive audience, once the laptop's powered down and the headphones put away, but Enjolras just keeps glancing at him sidelong with a tight set to his mouth that makes Grantaire almost wish he'd just come out with it and say something after all.

The taut silence lasts through landing and taxiing to the gate, through joining the shuffling line off the plane and standing around amongst the crowd waiting for their bags to appear on the carousel. While Enjolras deals with the car rental office, Grantaire pulls out his phone and plays several angry rounds of Candy Crush until he's run out of lives and there's nothing to do but wait or pay for the privilege of continuing to play.

They don't say a word to each other until they're in the car and on the road, and then Enjolras sighs, his gaze steady on the road in front of them. "It's just a party, R."

"I'm not an idiot. It's a courtship. They're going to try to schmooze me and get stars in my eyes and convince me to join them and there's no point because it's not going to work. I'm not going to let one nice evening blind me to the fact that joining St. Cloud would mean spending every day writing books that I hate. And what's worse, you're _helping_ them."

"I'm not trying to force you to do anything. I just want you to go to the party. You might even surprise yourself and have a good time."

"And icicles might start forming in hell."

Enjolras presses his lips flat and drives, leaving them both in silence broken only by the sounds of the road and the engine and the other cars driving along beside them. Grantaire stares out the window, determined to not let Enjolras break him with something as juvenile as the silent treatment.

A few miles pass beneath their wheels and the fire of Grantaire's anger starts to fade to a dull unease and a twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach. Enjolras hadn't thought that Jehan's event was the sort of thing that he'd like, either. He'd criticized Jehan's poetry, but in the end, once he'd given it a chance and unbent just a little, he'd enjoyed himself.

Of course, Enjolras had invited himself to the event in the first place. Grantaire had hardly dragged him there kicking and screaming.

Grantaire takes a deep breath and lets it out carefully. He doesn't turn from looking out the window, just says, "I'm not going to screw my readers over for some stupid party."

Enjolras, bless him, doesn't need to have it spelled out for him. "That's why I was talking about rescheduling, not just ditching our plans and leaving the bookstores in the lurch. We can go to the party tonight and stop by the bookstores in the morning."

"We have a flight in the morning, Apollo. Are you having a stroke?" Grantaire deigns to look at him, shooting him a concerned glance. "You're usually much more on-top of these details."

"Our next stop's scarcely a one-hour flight away, and there's another rest day at the end of it. Between travel time, flight time, and the buffer we need to get through security, it's scarcely a time-saver. We can keep the rental car, hit the bookstores in the morning, and then drive to the next stop instead of fly. We'll get there a few hours later than we otherwise would have, but we can also stop at more bookstores along our way and sign stock for people who are too far away to easily get to a reading." He gives Grantaire a sideways glance. "I'm no more interested in screwing your fans over than you are. We both owe our careers to the passion of readers."

Grantaire frowns out at the road ahead of them and considers it. Enjolras really should have led with his road trip idea, if he'd wanted to convince Grantaire. The idea of not having to wade through an airport and board a plane tomorrow does more to sway Grantaire's opinion than anything else Enjolras has said about the party, or his plans. Sure, he'll still be stuck in a seat for the whole thing, but at least he'll be able to crank the music up and put his feet up on the dashboard and lean his seat back as far as he likes. And he can eat and drink and not have to worry about balancing things on those flimsy trays. And he won't have to squeeze into a bathroom smaller than a broom closet every time he has to relieve himself.

"All right," he says, and then grimaces. He sounds fucking _eager_ , and that's bound to give Enjolras the wrong impression.

True to form, Enjolras glances over at him. He smiles a little, and straightens a little, like he's happy, and Grantaire is so screwed its ridiculous. "That was easier than I expected. Did you decide they might be capable of showing you a good time after all?"

"Oh no. I'm pretty sure they aren't." Grantaire grins, and he knows it's sharp and a little savage, but the hell with it. "But it's going to be fun to watch them try."

#

He reconsiders it all when Enjolras tells him that it's going to be a fancy affair and strongly hints that Grantaire should wear the slacks and dress shirt he bought for their disastrous dinner out. "You know, I think I forgot that whole outfit two stops back, such a shame," Grantaire says.

"You did not."

"You sound very sure of that. Have you been digging through my luggage? I have unmentionables in there, you know."

Enjolras snorts with what can only be honest-to-god amusement. "I haven't, you'll be glad to know. But I do know you. You'd have been more likely to sell the lie if you'd told me you gave it to some homeless man on the street outside our hotel room. You're not the sort to spend that kind of money and then carelessly forget it."

"Hey, I'm a wealthy man, now, my habits have changed."

"You're a _successful_ man now," Enjolras corrects him, smiling and shaking his head like he's fond, like he's more amused than irritated by Grantaire's tongue-in-cheek quips. "You've still got your advance to earn out, though. Don't go counting your chickens before they've hatched."

"Don't worry, _Dad_ ," Grantaire says, heavy with sarcasm and rolling his eyes. "I'm not going to go buy a brand new sports car or anything stupid. I've been doing this long enough, I'm pretty sure I know how to manage my money."

"Good. I'd hate to find you panhandling on a street corner just to try to make ends meet."

"I'd be the sharpest-dressed beggar in New York, though," Grantaire says, and grins with pride when it makes Enjolras bark out a laugh.

He's still not dressing up, though. Let St. Cloud pull out all the stops, if they want to try to win him over. Grantaire's not about to go to any extra effort for them. _He's_ not the one who has to impress anybody tonight.

#

"Well, the food is good," Grantaire concedes half an hour into the party when Enjolras is eyeing him anxiously. And it is, even if there isn't enough of it for Grantaire's tastes. They've got servers mingling amongst the guests with trays of various offerings, and they've all been delicious, but they've all been _small_ , and Grantaire is getting a little tired of having to flag someone down every time e wants another bite.

"Can you just grab me a plate and like half a dozen of those spinach appetizers?" he asks Enjolras as he tries to catch a server's eye from halfway across the room. "So I might have _some_ chance of actually getting my stomach to stop growling."

It's a sign of how desperately Enjolras wants Grantaire to enjoy himself that he neither corrects Grantaire (they're _hors d'oeuvres_ , he says, and Grantaire knows that, but he insists on calling them appetizers for the same reason that he insisted on wearing jeans and a band tee beneath his blazer, because if St. Cloud is so determined to court him, they're going to do it on his terms) nor protests being sent on an errand, he just nods and pushes his way through the crowds to reach a nearby server and hold a low, urgent conversation with him.

While he waits, Grantaire sips at his wine, which is also quite good, and takes the opportunity to people-watch until a voice at his elbow says, "You must be Grantaire."

He turns, already wary and braced for schmoozing. The woman beside him looks too young to be some sort of executive big-wig, though, and she's got a bright smile and an earnest face. 

He's not sure what his expression must look like, but it makes her smile and offer, "I recognized you from your author's photo," before he's even said anything.

"You've read my books?" Grantaire's not sure he believes it, and he's not sure he can keep that expression from his face. He's pretty sure no one at St. Cloud has ever so much as cracked the cover of one of his books, or they'd know that he isn't exactly St. Cloud material. He's pretty sure that the only thing of his that St. Cloud has ever read is his name on the Times' list and they just want him for the name recognition.

But the woman nods eagerly and gestures dangerously with her glass of wine. "Oh yes, all of them. _Well._ " She grimaces here and looks embarrassed. "I haven't finished _Tidelocked_ , I must admit, but that's no fault of yours. I had a bad breakup in the middle of reading that book and I had to set it aside in favor of something a little more light-hearted. You're really good at ratcheting up the tension, but I just couldn't take it on top of my own personal drama. I keep meaning to get back to it, but the to-be-read pile is ever-growing, I'm sure you know how it is."

"I do," Grantaire says with surprise. He turns around to face her more squarely. "I didn't think that high-stakes tension was the kind of thing that you literary sorts appreciate. Aren't you all about realism and character studies and slice-of-life vignettes?"

She makes a humming, noncommittal sound and shrugs one shoulder. "Well, I'm not. I can't speak for anyone else. Oh God, my manners! I'm Cosette Fauchelevent, by the way." She tries to shift her plate to the same hand that's holding her wine glass to free her other for a handshake, and ends up endangering the wine and the appetizers and the carpet all together. 

Grantaire quickly takes the plate from her and shakes her hand so she'll stop looking distressed over the courtesy lapse. "Grantaire, obviously. Pleased to meet you."

"Oh, you can keep that," she says with a wave when he offers her plate back. "I know how these things go, so I had a bite of dinner before we came. I'm full up, but you look like you might start gnawing on someone's leg if you don't get something in you soon."

Another time, Grantaire might protest or at least hesitate before agreeing to take someone else's food for his own, but she's not wrong about any of it, so he settles for a fervent, "Bless you," and has the plate cleared inside of a minute.

"What are you all about, then?" he asks her once he's washed the food down with a sip of wine. "If not slice-of-life realism, then what?" Everybody's got a thing, he's learned, the thing that started them writing in the first place and keeps them coming back for more. His has always been the characters. He likes figuring out how a person's history would shape them, and seeing how they react when the shit hits the fan. He likes figuring them out, and likes it even better when they surprise him.

"Language," Cosette says happily, and finishes her wine as a server passes so she can pass it off to him and have both hands free for gesturing. "I've just always really loved words and their meanings and how their meaning can change because of context, and how you can string a bunch of black marks on white paper together in such a way that it has an actual, physical effect on people, makes them laugh or cry or smile. I majored in linguistics before I figured out that I liked writing, so I guess that's no surprise."

Grantaire thinks she's more surprising than she gives herself credit for and he draws a breath to tell her so, but she continues on before he can, her eyes bright with interest.

"That's what grabbed me about your books in the first place, actually. God, you've got such a way with words, it's gorgeous."

Grantaire laughs, a bit too harsh, and shakes his head. "Are you sure you're talking to the right Grantaire? I just write adventure speculative fiction."

"Yes, I'm quite sure." She smiles at him indulgently. "And you do at that, but you write adventure speculative fiction that's really gorgeously written. I mean, do you remember--" She breaks off and gets a look of pinched concentration about her, and when she speaks again, Grantaire does a double-take because _he knows those words._

"That's from my first novel," he says faintly, staring at her, because _he_ couldn't have even recited that piece from memory, and she did it like it was easy.

She makes a careless gesture. "Oh, I know, you've gotten even better over the years, but that one's always stuck with me."

Enjolras returns then, with a plate heaping with a selection of appetizers, and Grantaire's never been more grateful to see him because his return covers up the fact that Grantaire really has absolutely no idea how to respond to Cosette. He takes the plate from Enjolras happily and picks at the food on it at a somewhat more reasonable pace than he did Cosette's, and tries to get his brain to start working properly again while Enjolras greets Cosette with a smile and a, "Sorry, you two were talking, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Oh, that's all right, I was just making Grantaire turn pink by telling him how great his use of language is."

"Isn't it?" Enjolras's face lights up like it's Christmas. "I keep telling him that, but he doesn't listen."

"Well, I'm glad it's not just me, then."

"It's not either of you," Grantaire says. "That's just not what I write."

Enjolras snorts. Cosette, rather more politely, asks, "Are they mutually exclusive? You can write adventure speculative fiction _and_ use gorgeous language in the process."

Later, Grantaire won't be able to put his finger on how she managed it, because the last thing he wants is to continue this conversation, but somehow the three of them end up seated around a table together, earnestly discussing craft and language use and whether it's possible to write genre fiction plots with a literary style. Cosette agrees with Enjolras that it is, but the whole conversation feels like an even-handed debate, not an attack, and by the time Cosette excuses herself to go rescue her boyfriend from some embarrassment or another, Grantaire's feeling invigorated by the shop talk.

Enjolras eyes him across the table after Cosette has left. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?" Somehow, he manages not to sound like he's secretly crowing with victory when he asks it.

Grantaire grunts and drains his wine glass. "A little, perhaps. I enjoyed that, at least." He sets the glass down and fixes Enjolras with a look. "Don't think that means anything. All it means is that there's a lot less stuffy people in tweed jackets looking down their noses at me than I expected."

Enjolras's brow notches up. "Is that what you think literary people are? Snotty high-brow academic types?"

"Well, if the shoe fits..."

Enjolras shakes his head with a sigh, but even now, he's not scowling like Grantaire might have expected. "I wouldn't have thought I'd need to warn a _writer_ about the perils of judging a book by its cover."

"Stereotypes get that way for a reason, you know."

They're interrupted before the conversation can go much farther, by a man who slides up to their table and smiles broadly at them both. Before he's even said a word, Grantaire is frowning at him. He couldn't say why, but the man's smile seems like the sort he's seen on used car salesmen before, broad and bright but with absolutely nothing but ulterior motives underneath its surface.

It's schmoozing and wooing from the very start, a rapid-fire inundation of why St. Cloud is so amazing interspersed with questions for Grantaire and responses given before he's even really had a chance to hear Grantaire's answer. 

Grantaire dislikes him immediately. Two minutes into the conversation he's got his arms crossed and a scowl fixed firmly in place. Enjolras glances at him, looking a little nervous, like he can tell that things are going pear-shaped. It's not as though anyone with two eyes and a brain behind them could miss the fact that Grantaire's displeased, but the man continues on as though oblivious to it, as though he can overcome Grantaire's distaste by sheer volume.

Enjolras makes a valiant effort to change the subject, to turn them to a discussion of craft of the sort that he'd enjoyed so well with Cosette. But the man continues on oblivious -- and then when Enjolras persists in trying to get him to share his opinion and engage them in discussion, the man scoffs, flips his hand dismissively. "Oh, you'd hardly know, working in genre fiction all these years," he says. "Don't worry, we'll teach you better once you're part of our staff."

Grantaire stiffens and draws a sharp breath. It's only Enjolras's hand on his arm that keeps him from snarling out what he thinks of the man right there in the middle of the party for everyone to hear. 

He looks at Enjolras, belligerent. But Enjolras is pleading with him silently, his mouth twisted and unhappy.

"Excuse me," Grantaire mutters to the man. "I need to go refill my glass." And he stomps off before either of them can think to stop him.

The party suddenly feels stifling, too many people crowded too close together, the air warm from all those bodies pressed into the same space. Grantaire makes for the ornate french doors at the end of the room and steps out onto a terrace in the cool night air.

The stars are out overhead, giving enough light to see by as he makes his way down the broad steps to a small landscaped area with a bubbling fountain. There's someone already there, a slight shape with long blonde hair, and Grantaire recognize Cosette as he gets closer. Relief swamps him. He settles down beside her and they sit together in silence for a few minutes.

"Are you hiding from someone, too?" he asks at last, turning to look at her.

"No, just enjoying the night." She smiles. "But I talked a server into letting me smuggle this out. It sounds like you could use it." She proffers a wine bottle.

"I really could." He accepts it from her, pulls the cork from the neck and drinks from it. This one's a red, not the white he was drinking earlier inside, and that's good, it's heavy and tannic and suits his mood more than something light and fresh. "Let's talk craft again, shall we? That was nice."

"All right. What should we talk about?"

"You could tell me how amazing I am some more, I'd be okay with that."

She laughs, bright and clear in the crisp night. "I don't think you need your ego stroked any more than I've already done, but let's talk tension, we've already established that I think you're marvelous at it and now you can thank me for the flattery by telling me how you do it."

"Oh God, no, let's talk something else, before I'm forced to admit that I have no idea how I do that, I just wing it and it all seems to work out in the end."

"I have a hard time believing that." She gives him a sharp grin. "Maybe if it was one book, I'd believe that it was a happy accident, but you're very consistent. You know something about building tension. Maybe you don't know what it is you know, but it's in there somewhere." She reaches over and taps Grantaire on the temple.

A noise behind them saves Grantaire from having to try to figure out what it is that he knows but doesn't know he knows. He turns, frowning already, braced for the return of that unpleasant man. It's only Enjolras, though, looking harried and haggard, and Grantaire offers him the wine bottle without comment.

Enjolras takes it, drinks long enough to make Grantaire's eyebrows lift, then pulls the bottle away and looks at it like he's just seeing it. "Did you steal this?"

"I smuggled it out," Cosette says cheerfully.

"Why is there always illicit alcohol around you?" Enjolras wonders and sits down beside Grantaire.

Grantaire gives a loose shrug. "Good things come to those who wait?"

Enjolras lifts his brows at him. "What are you waiting for?"

"Can't say. It hasn't gotten here yet."

Enjolras chuckles like it's a joke. He drinks some more of the wine, then hands the bottle back. Grantaire offers it to Cosette, but she shakes her head and braces her hands beneath her. "You keep it. I should go make sure Marius hasn't gotten himself into trouble." She pats Grantaire's shoulder as she gets to her feet and returns inside, the quiet sounds of her steps slowly fading away.

With just the two of them left out there, Grantaire slides his gaze sideways to Enjolras. "Sorry for abandoning you with that asshole," he says quietly. "I should have found an excuse to drag you away with me, but I was afraid if I stayed there a second longer I was going to have no choice but to take a swing at him."

Enjolras makes a pained sound and shuts his eyes, giving his head a little shake. "R," he says, choked. "That was the CEO of St. Cloud."

Grantaire lets out an explosive breath. _"Christ._ And you want to work for him? You want me to join you? You're not helping your case any."

"He comes off strong, I know, but--"

"No, he comes off like an ass. Or did you miss the way he talked over you back there?"

Enjolras says nothing, but he reaches across Grantaire to take the wine back and he drinks from it deeply. Grantaire watches him in silence until he finally comes up for air.

"They want you for editor," Grantaire says quietly. "They want you because of the editing work you've done on my books. In theory, anyway. But then they go and dismiss you like that? They're going to _teach you better?_ "

Enjolras grimaces and runs a hand over his brow.

_"Fuck them,_ Apollo. Seriously. You're an amazing editor, and if they're not going to recognize that, then they don't deserve you. And I'll be damned if I'm going to write for somebody who's so dismissive to someone I respect so much."

That startles Enjolras enough to make him straighten, make him twist to face Grantaire. Grantaire doesn't think he can bear to have Enjolras looking at him like that, all wide-eyed and surprised, like this could possibly be news to him. Grantaire laughs, harsh and humorless. "God, Enjolras. How can that be a surprise? You're the only editor I've ever worked with. There's a reason for that, and it's not lack of alternatives."

"You don't like change," Enjolras says quietly. He fingers the neck of the bottle but doesn't drink again, not yet.

"I'm more flexible than you give me credit for."

"You don't like--"

"What I don't like," he says, biting off every word, "is working with anyone but you. I know you. I trust you. We work well together, and you make my books better. That's why they should want you. But they clearly don't, and you deserve better than that. You shouldn't-- Fuck." He breaks off and scrubs his hands over his face. "I can't tell you what to do, it's your choice. But I don't think this is going to be the career opportunity you think it is, if they aren't going to value the work that you do and the knowledge that you already have. You can find better, if you're not happy where you are."

Enjolras is quiet for a long time. Grantaire would worry that he'd said something wrong, that he'd angered him, but the wine is making him too loose to fret that much, and the silence between them doesn't feel like an angry one. So he just sits there with Enjolras, their shoulders brushing, quietly passing the bottle back and forth between them until it's down to dregs.

"I want to be able to make a difference," Enjolras says at last, quietly, directing his words up to the stars. "I want to be able to find great books and great writers and make them better, and share them with readers."

"You can't do that where you are now?" It's not a belligerent question, or a sarcastic one. Grantaire puts the effort in to make sure it's said quietly and honestly, because he knows anything else will ruin this moment between them, and it's so nice. It's so nice to just sit and talk together again, without arguing and without ulterior motives. It's so nice to feel like allies again, instead of the antagonists they've been the past few weeks.

It might be the influence of the wine that's making it all possible, but Grantaire isn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Enjolras sighs and shakes his head in a weary gesture. "There's so much tying my hands. I can find an amazing book in the slush, intricately plotted and full of compelling characters, written with gorgeous language, but I can't guarantee that I'll be able to publish it. There's still bosses and committees who have to be convinced, and any one of them can say no and that's that. They can reject it because they don't see the gem inside, waiting to be brought out with just a little bit of polish, or because they don't think it'll sell and so they don't want to give it a chance. They can reject it because the publicity department doesn't know how they would market it, for God's sake. It's maddening and it's heartbreaking and I'm so tired of having to fight for the right to put books into print when that's supposed to be my job, that's what they hired me to _do_."

This time, it's Grantaire who lets the silence stretch between them while he thinks. "Do you really think you'll be able to do that here at St. Cloud? When they're already talking about teaching you how to do things their way instead of your own?"

"I don't know," Enjolras says with a sigh. He slumps forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, the picture of dejection. "I really don't."

"Well. Come on." Grantaire hooks his arm through Enjolras's and pulls him up to his feet. "Let's call a cab and go home. I think I've had about as much socializing as I care to."

It's a testament to Enjolras's level of discouragement that he just nods and says, "Yeah, all right," doesn't protest, doesn't insist that good manners insists that he stay, doesn't fight at all, just lets Grantaire pull his phone out of his pocket and look up the number for the nearest taxi service.


	7. Chapter 7

Grantaire wakes up the next morning to discover that he's flirting with a hangover. It's not enough to make him a truly wretched specimen of a human being, but it does sit at the back of his awareness, throwing him off at inopportune moments with a sudden burst of nausea or the painful throb of a headache.

Enjolras has aspirin waiting for him along with his coffee when Grantaire comes down to meet him in the hotel lobby. Grantaire eyes him as he swallows them down, crisp and pressed and perfect as ever, and wonders if he knew Grantaire was going to need them because he just knows Grantaire that well, or through personal experience. Grantaire could never be so put-together while suffering a hangover, but then, it's no surprise to Grantaire that Enjolras has powers that verge on the superhuman, there's a reason he calls him Apollo and it's not just to get a rise out of him. And there's a faint pinch drawing wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, a stiffness to his upright position that seems more forced than natural, the way he's standing so that he's in the lee of a pillar, blocked from most of the lobby's bright fluorescent lights -- none of them are damning in their own right, but they do paint a picture.

Grantaire downs half the coffee while standing there, then comes up for air. "Do you want me to drive?"

Enjolras lifts a brow at him. "You look like you've barely woken up."

"And you look like you could use a couple more hours sleep. You could drop the seat back and nap in the car while I go around signing every copy of my book in a ten mile radius. It's bound to be boring, watching me sign my name a hundred times in a row."

Enjolras's brow notches a little higher, but a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, softening the expression. "Isn't that what you do at every event? I haven't gotten bored yet."

"Fine! Okay." Grantaire raises the hand that isn't holding his coffee, palm out, fingers spread. "I give. You can drive, you obsessive control freak."

"I already checked us out. Just go drop your keycard off at the desk and we can get on our way."

It's not an unpleasant way to spend the morning, driving around visiting all the bookstores in town. Grantaire has always loved bookstores, shopping for books is the only kind of shopping he's ever enjoyed doing, and the opportunity to visit so many of them in such a short time feels like a gift. He makes idle chatter with the stores' employees as he signs their stock, introduces Enjolras and grins when he looks flustered at their enthusiasm, and generally has the best morning he's had in a long while, even with the hangover gnawing at him in the background.

By midday they've hit all the bookstores in town and there's nothing to do but grab some lunch (Enjolras consents to fast food for the sake of expediency; then he buys a salad and Grantaire laughs at him for the entire meal) and get on the road.

It's just as refreshing a way to travel as Grantaire anticipated it being. The hum of the engine and the road beneath their wheels is soothing, the scenery flitting by outside much more interesting than the lazy scroll of distant landscape beneath a plane's tiny windows. And there aren't any people to deal with but Enjolras, no strangers crowding up against him in the security line, no fussy babies or hyper children with inattentive parents. There's no flight attendants to instruct him for the twelfth time in two weeks on the very complicated task of buckling a seat belt -- though when they first climb back into the car after their lunch, Enjolras gets a mischievous look in his eyes and starts in on a pitch-perfect rendition of their spiel, pointing out the location of their vehicle's emergency exits, until Grantaire groans and starts throwing napkins at him.

"Driver gets to pick the music," Enjolras declares before Grantaire can even reach for the radio. Then he punches a button on the control panel and something tragic with a country twang fills the car. Grantaire gapes at him, speechless and scrambling to figure out how it's possible that they've known each other so long and been in such close proximity to one another these past weeks, and yet Grantaire never knew that he was secretly a country fan. But before he can decide how to react, whether by laughing or teasing or just waiting for the station to start playing one of the few country songs Grantaire actually knows so he can belt out the lyrics and take Enjolras by surprise, Enjolras double-takes, gives the radio a look like it's personally betrayed him, and then punches the "seek" button until he's found a station playing oldies.

Grantaire settles on laughter, wheezing with it, and doesn't manage to get a hold of himself for two miles.

Two hours in, the radio station's starting to repeat songs and Grantaire catches himself eyeing the freeway signs for indications of upcoming rest stops or fast food areas. He clears his throat as they start to make their way out of rolling hills and back into the cookie-cutter homes and manicured lawns of suburban housing developments. "We need to find a gas station or something in the next few minutes."

Enjolras glances at him, one brow lifted and his expression curious, worrying. "Everything okay?"

Grantaire groans and covers his face with a hand. "I'm fine, Apollo, but I had that coffee this morning, and the soda with lunch, and please tell me I don't have to spell it out for you any more than that."

He doesn't, thank God, and in a few minutes there's a sign indicating a gas station near the next off-ramp, so Enjolras's changes lanes and they get off the freeway.

He runs inside to retrieve the bathroom key from the bored-looking attendant while Enjolras pumps gas, and emerges a few minutes later feeling much better. He can see Enjolras through the convenience store's windows, squeegeeing the windshield down while the gas still pumps, so Grantaire kills some time wandering the aisles.

When he comes out, he's laden down with armfuls of junk food. Enjolras is leaning against the side of the car, waiting for him, and his brows ratchet up when he takes in the stuffed-to-bursting plastic bags he's trying to juggle. "Did you buy the whole store?"

"Nearly," Grantaire says, and then, "I didn't know what you like."

That makes Enjolras's expression of cool amusement shift turn startled. "You didn't have to do that. I've still got the rest of my salad, if I get hungry--"

"Oh God, Apollo, you really know how to ruin a good time." He nudges Enjolras aside with his hip, since his hands are full, and climbs into the passenger seat. He deposits the bags of provisions in the footwell, then rolls the window down and leans his head out. "This is a road trip. Salads should be forbidden on road trips."

Enjolras gives him an exasperated look. "I like salads."

"Well, I'm sure there's something in here that you'll like, too, and at least it won't make me feel like a pig if we're both eating food that's terrible for us. Get in before I decide to mutiny and take the wheel for myself."

Enjolras gets in, and before they get back on the road, Grantaire spends a minute showing him everything he bought -- there's chips, pretzels, candy bars, sodas. Enjolras looks on it all and sighs a little bit, then takes a bag of trail mix for himself with a little smile that makes it clear he's just doing it to please Grantaire.

Grantaire just shrugs and takes a bag of Fritos and a bottle of Coke for himself. He slides his seat back as far as it will go, to make more room in the footwell, and kicks his feet up onto the dashboard as Enjolras takes them back to the freeway.

"Oh God," Grantaire groans when the radio station starts playing a song they've heard four times already. "Can we listen to something else? _Anything_ else? If this song earworms me, I'm going to make you listen to my off-key renditions of it for the rest of the day, I swear to God."

"Driver gets to pick the music," Enjolras says, his voice tight. But then he slides his gaze sideways to Grantaire and the set of his mouth softens some. He reaches out to the radio's controls, seeking through the local stations until he finds something that appears to satisfy him. And it isn't a song Grantaire's heard in the past hour, so he counts himself satisfied as well.

Half an hour out of town, Grantaire's offers of Fritos finally gets a little sigh and an acceptance. Enjolras fishes out a scant handful, careful to keep his eyes on the road, and eats them like it's a duty, and Grantaire groans and rolls his eyes and tells him he's just going to ruin it if he goes about it like that.

An hour into the middle of nowhere, Enjolras is singing along with "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" beneath his breath and Grantaire has his feet kicked up and his sunglasses on and is fighting against a grin that will give away that he's awake and listening, when the car suddenly jolts and a rapid _thump-thump-thump_ makes Enjolras swear and pull the car over to the side of the road.

Grantaire sits up, pretense dropped, and pushes his sunglasses up onto his head. "Did we get a flat?"

"Sounds like it." Enjolras's mouth is tense and drawn. "Wait here, I'll go check."

Grantaire climbs out of the car half a step behind Enjolras and ignores the exasperated look Enjolras shoots him at his blatant defiance. He circles around the car to stand beside Enjolras as they look at the car's rear tire, which is undeniably flat and starting to shred along the sidewall, so not even a can of Fix-a-Flat could get them moving again.

Grantaire looks at Enjolras for a long moment, as well. "If you tell me you didn't spring for the roadside assistance package on the rental, I'm not going to believe you. You're Mr. Preparedness, I refuse to believe that you didn't account for absolutely all possibilities."

"Of course I got roadside assistance." If Enjolras snaps it a little bit, well, Grantaire figures the least he can do is forgive him, considering the circumstances. He doesn't say a word as Enjolras pulls out his phone, unlocks it, and then stares at it with a frown gradually pulling his expression into one of mingled consternation and outrage.

A minute passes and Grantaire waits. Finally, Enjolras gives a sharp sigh and drops the hand with his phone down to his side. "Your faith in me, however, seems to be misplaced. I didn't plan for _all_ eventualities. Or at least--" He gestures with the phone. "Not for the possibility of being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no cell service."

Grantaire looks at the phone and humphs a little bit, then walks around to the back of the car to pop the trunk and look inside. By the side of the road, Enjolras is squinting at his phone and holding it up in the air at arm's reach, like the two feet of difference might be all he needs to get a bit of precious signal.

Grantaire's lips twitch at the sight. When Enjolras starts pacing and muttering incomprehensible things at the screen of his phone, Grantaire abandons his task and comes forward again, to lean against the side of the car and watch him with a twisted smile. "Do you think if you mutter at it long enough, it'll start working?"

Enjolras throws him a dirty look. "We're not _that_ far away from civilization, I can't believe I don't have any bars at all here."

Grantaire lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "It's hilly around here, I can't say I'm surprised. Duck inside and grab my phone, will you? It's in the cup holder. We have different providers, maybe I'll have signal even though you don't."

Enjolras does not look well pleased at being bossed around, but he does it all the same, pulling the car's door open with probably a bit more sullenness than is called for and ducking inside. He emerges in a moment with Grantaire's phone in his hand, and he frowns down at it rather than giving it over to Grantaire to check for himself. "It says no service." He taps it against his hand a few times and scowls at it.

Grantaire can't help himself, he knows it's going to turn Enjolras's glare onto himself, but he laughs anyway. "It's not a flashlight with a loose connection, Apollo. What do you think that's going to do to it?" He takes it back before Enjolras can commit any more violence upon it.

Enjolras bares his teeth just a little in a frustrated grimace. "Well I don't see you do anything to try to figure this out," he mutters, and steps right into the middle of the street to squint back the way they'd just come, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun.

"Oh Christ." Grantaire darts after him. He catches Enjolras by the wrist and drags him back onto the shoulder. "Get back here. Are you trying to make me have a heart attack?"

"There's no one on the road, Grantaire, it was hardly a risky action."

"There's no one until there is, and then you'll be sorry when you're splattered across the road and I can't get you to a hospital because our car's got a flat. Just stay out of the middle of the street, will you? Christ, I can't believe I have to _ask_ you that."

Enjolras just glares like everything that's happened is Grantaire's fault. "I was looking to see if there was any sign another car might be coming that could help us."

"All right, you knock yourself out." Grantaire goes around to the trunk again and starts pulling at the carpet lining it until he finds the panel that lifts up and reveals the spare underneath. "Meanwhile, I'm going to try something a little more likely to accomplish something than just sitting around hoping for salvation. Come give me a hand?"

Enjolras comes, a quizzical look on his face as he peers into the trunk. When he sees the panel lift and the spare tire laid out, his brows climb high.

"Just hold this up for me, will you? I need both my hands."

Enjolras takes hold of the edge of the trunk's lid, holding it open. "R," he says, frowning. "I'm not exactly a car guy. I couldn't tell you what a lug nut is to save my life."

That makes Grantaire grin over his shoulder, though the expression drops away quickly as he grabs onto the tire and hauls it up out of its compartment. "No, I don't imagine you could. Well, lucky for you, Apollo, I'm a starving artist who's had no choice but to learn how to do some things for himself to spare the expense. I'll teach you about lug nuts later, if you want. For now--" He hefts the tire up out of the trunk and lowers it to stand on its edge on the ground, then gestures back into the trunk. "Grab the jack and the wrench for me, will you?"

Enjolras grabs them and lets the trunk fall shut. He follows Grantaire with them as Grantaire rolls the spare tire over to the one that's gone flat and watches it all with a narrowed, slightly suspicious gaze, like he's trying to decide if he's having the wool pulled over his eyes or not.

"Please be careful," Grantaire says. "You're standing very close to the edge of the road."

Enjolras glances behind him to see that the back of his heel is brushing against the white line marking the boundary between road and shoulder, then back to Grantaire. "What about you? You're as close as I am."

Grantaire shakes the hair out of his face and smiles up at him as he kneels with the jack. "I'm being careful."

Enjolras looks unconvinced, but he turns so he can watch the road and keeps a sharp eye out. Grantaire realizes after a moment, when Enjolras doesn't move from where he's leaning against the side of the car, that Enjolras is looking out for cars for _him_ , and there's really no way to react to that but to duck his head and redouble his focus on the task at hand.

The sun beating down on the nape of his neck makes sweat break out across his back. The first lug nut comes loose without requiring too much in the way of excessive effort, but it leaves Grantaire with streaks of black grease or God-knows-what across his hands. He grimaces and wipes them off on what's available as best he can, but it's of limited use. In the end, all he can do is shove his sleeves up to his elbows to try to keep them from being ruined and keep working at the lug nuts until the last one comes loose and he can swap the ruined tire out for the spare.

Enjolras glances at him occasionally as he works, a few times, until he gives a sharp breath and turns on his heel to move up to the front of the car and take up his look-out position there. Grantaire watches him go with a raised brow, then shakes his head and scrubs the back of his wrist across his forehead, where sweat and his hair are making it itch. "Five minutes, barring disaster," he calls to Enjolras.

Enjolras turns enough to look at him, then turns sharply away. "Christ," Grantaire hears him breathe, and it makes Grantaire's mouth thin.

"I'm doing the best I can, Apollo. It's not like you're over here helping me out any." His shirt is getting sticky with sweat and his hair keeps falling in his face and he's pretty sure he got a swipe of grease across his cheek when he made a thoughtless gesture earlier, and his right sleeve keeps coming loose and slipping down and he's clearly out of practice of working on cars from living in the city, because he's pretty sure he looks like a disaster while Enjolras still looks as pristine as ever, and Grantaire will count himself lucky if Enjolras deigns to let him ride in the car, considering the risk his greasy hands pose to the upholstery. It's a little bit fascinating to see Enjolras come apart like this, when he's usually got all his I's dotted and his T's crossed and everything planned and moving along perfectly, but it's also more than a little frustrating.

By the time the five minutes are up, he's got the spare in place and the lug nuts tightened back on, and he's just finishing up wrestling the flat tire into the trunk in the spare's place. Enjolras comes back to watch him with an unreadable look, but he still doesn't offer to help. And it's not as though Grantaire would take him up on it if he did, because one of them ought to at least have clean hands, but still, if he's going to stand there and critique Grantaire when he admitted himself he doesn't know the first thing about it--

Enjolras clears his throat quietly to get Grantaire's attention, but when Grantaire looks at him, he shifts his gaze sideways and doesn't meet his eye. "You've got something on your shirt, just there."

Grantaire looks and swears. He's got a smudge of dirt across the front of his shirt -- from lifting the tire in, he thinks -- and he's not sure that it's going to be stained or ruined, but even so, swearing seems like the thing to do.

"We can stop somewhere with a bathroom and you can clean up," Enjolras offers. "We're not _that_ far behind schedule."

Grantaire gives a hollow laugh. "Maybe not yet, but we're going to be." He gestures to the spare. "Those are only designed to let you limp off to the nearest tire store, you know. It's not going to get us all the way to our hotel, and if you try to force the issue, we're just going to end up with another flat a few miles on down the road."

"Bathroom first," Enjolras says, and that's that. Fifteen minutes later, Grantaire is standing under the fluorescent light of a rest stop bathroom, his hands scrubbed clean though there's still a little grease clinging to the creases of his knuckles, and frowning as he scrubs at his shirt with a paper towel and all it accomplishes is to make the towel turn to mush and leave bits of wet paper on his shirt.

Enjolras decided to wait for him outside, and Grantaire doesn't have to guess to know that he's probably leaning up against the car with his arms crossed and his foot tapping an impatient rhythm in the gravel. That or he's wandering around the parking lot with his phone held overhead like a loon, trying to find somewhere with signal so he can start calmly orchestrating the effort to get everything fixed and the arrangements made and everything smoothed back out into the easy clockwork rhythms that Grantaire is used to from him.

There's nothing for the shirt but to strip it off and hope the dirt washes out, because Grantaire may not be the sort who cares about Windsor knots or pressing creases into his pants, but he's not going to spend the day with bits of drying paper towel on his shirt, either. He comes out with it bundled up in his hands and finds Enjolras waiting just where he expected him, leaning against the side of the car and frowning into the depths of one of the bags of chips Grantaire bought to supply their road trip.

He glances up when Grantaire's steps crunch across the gravel, and does a double-take that's so violent it nearly sends the bag of chips flying out of his hands. "What happened to your shirt?"

"I'm just making it worse." Grantaire scowls and pulls open the door to the back of the car so he can shove the stained shirt into his luggage and fish around inside until he comes up with a clean one. "I'll just have to hope some proper laundry soap will do the trick."

He pulls the new shirt on, and when he gets his head through the neck, Enjolras is watching him with a twisted expression that could mean anything. Grantaire's not sure if he's working himself up to comment on Grantaire's laundry habits, like it's somehow Grantaire's fault for not anticipating that they might end up needing to make an emergency tire change on the side of the road and wearing something more suited for the job, or if he's going to try to do something ridiculous like suggest they take the shirt to a dry cleaner's to make sure it gets cleaned properly. Either way, they don't have time for it, so Grantaire just shakes his head before Enjolras can say anything and climbs back into the passenger seat. "Come on, let's go. This tire isn't going to replace itself."

They finally find their way to a suburb where they at last can get signal on their phones, and Grantaire uses his to look up the nearest tire store and then give Enjolras directions to it. Enjolras seems to be holding on to his patience by a thread through the whole thing, and when the guy at the store starts going on about all the paperwork he's going to have to do and all the calls he's going to have to make in order to arrange payment from the car rental place and the insurance policy that Enjolras purchased for the trip, even that seems to start unraveling.

Grantaire grabs him by the arm and drags him to a pizza place across the street. It's not the best food in the world, it's probably not even the best pizza in the city, but at least it's something other than chips and soda to fill their bellies with. Enjolras doesn't even complain about the greasiness of the pizza -- though he does get a plate of greens from the salad bar, as well, and only kicks Grantaire lightly under the table when he starts laughing at him.

The tire store is a madhouse of customers and activity, and it takes them hours to get to Enjolras and Grantaire's car. By the end of the second, Enjolras is pacing the waiting room mumbling something beneath his breath that sounds an awful lot like revolt, and is starting to earn concerned glances from the other customers waiting there with them. Finally, Grantaire catches his arm the next time he passes by and pulls him down into the chair beside Grantaire's. "They're going to make us pay for that carpet if you keep wearing holes in it."

"This is _ridiculous_ , it's just a tire!" The words burst from him like he's been holding them back, just waiting for an excuse to let them loose. "Even if they're rotating the tires, it shouldn't take this long!"

Grantaire swears as he loses at another level of Candy Crush. "Do you think that railing about it is going to make it go any faster?"

Enjolras checks his watch and gets a pinched, unhappy look. "We're never going to make it to our hotel tonight. We'll have to cancel our reservations and find somewhere between there and here to stay the night. If we get an early start in the morning we can still make it for your event."

"Well, that sounds like a barrel of laughs. I thought the whole point of this plan was to avoid having to get up at the crack of dawn?"

Enjolras's mouth twists, and Grantaire knows that what's coming is, _No, that wasn't the point at all_ , because Enjolras does lots of things for lots of reasons, but laziness is pretty much never one of them.

"It was _my_ point," Grantaire says, to cut him off.

Enjolras gives a sharp sigh and bends forward, his elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry." His gaze is downcast and there's an unhappy set to his mouth, and he says it low enough and sincere enough that Grantaire shuts off his phone and drops it into his pocket.

"Now, I've no idea what you're saying that for. It's hardly your fault that our tire fell apart."

"I should have checked the tire pressure before we left, I should've done a thorough walk-around so we'd have known of any potential issues before we got stranded with them in the middle of nowhere, I could have—"

"Apollo." Grantaire lays his hand on Enjolras's knee to get his attention, to make sure he's listening. It silences the tortured flow of Enjolras's words immediately. "You are not omniscient. Cut yourself some slack."

Enjolras frowns down at his hand for a moment, but before Grantaire can pull it back and apologize, he gets to his feet with a sigh and crosses the waiting room to go talk with the cashier yet again. Grantaire lets his hand fall away and returns to his phone and his game, trying to convince himself he's not painfully aware of the cadence of Enjolras's voice drifting muffled but distinct across the room.

Finally, Enjolras comes back with an air of victory. "Ten minutes." He settles back into his chair with an insufferably smug demeanor. And sure enough, nine minutes and change later, Enjolras is signing the receipt and taking possession of their keys once again, and five minutes after that, they're on the road again.

Grantaire didn't even make a comment when Enjolras insisted on stopping at the first gas station and checking the pressure in all four tires. He deserves a fucking _medal._


	8. Chapter 8

Grantaire is perfectly happy to keep driving until late into the night, because every mile farther that they make it is just a little bit later that he'll get to sleep in in the morning. Eventually, though, Enjolras's eyes are drooping and Grantaire's navigation directions have turned to a mumbled, "I dunno, just turn up here somewhere, I'm sure it'll work out fine," and they both decide that it's time to throw in the towel and find a place to sleep for the night.

Enjolras finds his way to a decent hotel, not as classy as most of the ones they've stayed in throughout the tour but at least a step up from a roadside motel, and Grantaire doesn't even bother making noises about getting their bags out of the car, he just staggers blindly after Enjolras into the lobby and leans his head in his arms on the front desk while Enjolras holds himself upright through what seems to Grantaire to be sheer force of will and manages not to sound too plaintive when he asks for two rooms for the night, please.

The girl behind the desk makes a little humming sound and Grantaire already knows that the news isn't going to be good, before she even opens her mouth and says, "I'm sorry, sir, we only have one room available tonight."

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and then another, and Grantaire braces because he knows that those are Enjolras's fighting-for-calm breaths. The girl seems oblivious to the danger, even when Enjolras asks with a desperate edge to his voice, "Surely there must be at least one cancellation—"

Grantaire lifts his head just enough to peer over his arm and catch the girl's apologetic head-shake. "I'm sorry, just the one. If you two are willing—"

"Yes," Grantaire says before Enjolras can refuse. He lifts his head and grips the edge of the counter until his knuckles go white. "We're willing, it's fine, neither of us snore, I'm sure, and if you do, Apollo, I'm tired enough to sleep through the the apocalypse. It can't be that awful to share a room with me for one night, can it?"

Enjolras glances at him, and then away. He takes a few more deep breaths, like he's fighting for calm, and Grantaire prays that he's not going to say something short-tempered that'll earn them the enmity of the check-in girl. They really need a hotel room. They really, really need beds. Enjolras may be in denial, but Grantaire has not missed the way he's practically swaying on his feet.

After a moment, Enjolras lets out a sharp breath of air and gives an even sharper nod. "Yes, that's fine, we can share a room if we must." He pulls his wallet out and slides his credit card across the counter to the girl. "Just one night. Two keycards, please."

Grantaire's sure it's only minutes, but it still feels like it takes the girl forever to get them registered and checked in and their keycards activated. When she hands them over, Grantaire grabs his greedily and catches Enjolras by the arm to pull him toward the elevators. "The suitcases can stay in the car for one evening, Apollo."

"Our pajamas—"

"I really could not care less right now. You can go back and get yours from the car if you like, but I'm going upstairs, and I reserve the right to claim the better bed if you lollygag about."

Enjolras frowns, but he doesn't pull out of Grantaire's grip, just lets himself be dragged onto the elevator. Grantaire leans back against the elevator's wall and lets his eyes slide shut, listening to the quiet _ding, ding, ding_ counting off the floors, until the elevator settles into place and the doors slide open.

The hotel's halls are labyrinthine and the posted signs only marginally helpful, but eventually they find their room, and Grantaire's in the lead so he uses his card to unlock the door. Enjolras is close at his heels, and he finds the light-switch and turns the room's lights on while Grantaire forges into the dark room.

It means he's halfway inside it when the harsh incandescent light floods the room, practically in front of the bed.

_The_ bed. Singular.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Enjolras's voice snaps with temper.

Grantaire just sinks down onto the edge of the bed and leans his head into his hands, fighting down a bubble of hysterical laughter. "This is not happening."

Enjolras stands just inside the room with his arms crossed over his chest, a pinched expression between his brows as he glances around like he expects another bed might just magically appear if he looks for it hard enough.

"It's not," Grantaire says again, dropping his hands and fixing Enjolras with a look. "I refuse."

Enjolras lifts a dubious eyebrow. "To believe it?"

"To allow it. This is a _cliche_ , are you kidding me." How is this his life? Things like this only happen in romcoms and romance novels. "This doesn't happen to real people. I want a do-over."

Enjolras sighs and leans his shoulders back against the wall. "I could go back downstairs and explain the misunderstanding, but they didn't have any more rooms five minutes ago, and I doubt they're going to change their answer now."

Grantaire flops down onto his back and stares up at the ceiling overhead. "Why does the universe hate me?"

"We could call around until we find somewhere else with vacancies--"

"Oh God." He grabs the pillow from overhead and shoves it over his face to muffle a groan. He only stays there a moment, though, before he sits up, tucks the pillow under is arm, and gets to his feet. "No, forget it. I am not going to survive if I have to stay awake another minute longer. Just call down to the front desk and have them send up another duvet." He stats pulling at the one tucked neatly around their bed. "I'm just going to take this one into the bathroom and sleep in the tub."

"Grantaire." Enjolras's voice is choked, strangled. "Stop that. You're not going to sleep in the bathtub."

"Watch me."

_"R."_ He passes a hand over his face and sighs. "This is ridiculous. You take the bed. I'll sleep in the armchair."

This time, Grantaire's laughter is definitely tinged with hysteria. Grantaire's life has turned into a romance novel cliche and Enjolras is standing there looking like a goddamn martyr. "That would defeat the point. I am never going to be able to get to sleep if I know you're ten feet away, twisting your spine into knots for my sake."

Enjolras's mouth tightens. " _You_ have to give an event tomorrow, and talk to other people like you're an actual, functional human being. I can keep to the sidelines and deal with being a little sleep deprived."

"This is true. But it still doesn't change the facts."

"Grantaire--"

"For fuck's sake, Apollo." He throws the pillow in his hands at Enjolras. "We are both responsible adults." Okay, so maybe Grantaire stretches the definition of "responsible" on a good day. Even so. "I think we can manage to sleep on opposite sides of a bed without succumbing to adolescent histrionics." They can, because he absolutely refuses to be the victim of a cliche. They're adults, they're friends, they can damn well sleep with a foot of mattress between them without forgetting that they are mature, rational men.

So one of them is maybe more than a little bit gone over the other. That's none of Enjolras's business, and Grantaire's managed to keep that secret to himself (and Eponine, and pretty much anyone he spends any amount of time talking to about Enjolras) for this long, he's not going to let one awkward night break his streak.

Enjolras stares at the bed for a long moment like he's trying to decide if he agrees with Grantaire or not, which is strange enough as it is. Enjolras always knows his own mind, and if he doesn't, he fakes it until he makes it. Abruptly, he lets out a sharp breath and turns on his heel. "I'm going to go get our bags," he says, the moment before the door swings shut behind him.

Grantaire stares at the closed door for a moment, indecision roiling through him before he finally snaps. He's not going to wait for Enjolras to bring up their luggage, because that's just going to lead to awkward retreats to the bathroom to get changed into their pajamas and other trope staples, and Grantaire is not going to give in to the cliche that easily. He's slept in boxers and a t-shirt before, there's no reason in the world he can't do so again tonight, even if he is sharing a bed. He strips off his jeans and socks quickly, leaves them in a heap on his side of the bed (ignores the way that phrase, _his side_ , sends a whole flock of manic butterflies whirling about in his stomach) and climbs under the covers before Enjolras makes it back. He punches the pillow up under his cheek and tells himself his heart isn't racing, because that's _ridiculous_.

He's still awake when Enjolras returns, but he keeps his eyes shut against the bright lamp light and pretends he isn't.

Enjolras is still and quiet for a long minute. Grantaire's skin prickles with the awareness of him there, standing just by the bed. Eventually, he gives a heavy sigh, there's the sound of movement, and then the sound of his suitcase's zipper.

Grantaire is keenly aware that lying in bed pretending to sleep is its own cliche. But if he opens his eyes, if he has to see what sort of pajamas Enjolras wears, if he has to watch him disappear into the bathroom and know that he's stripping down and getting changed just on the other side, Grantaire's pretty sure his brain's going to explode, so cliche it is. At least it'll leave him still able to look Enjolras in the eye once the morning comes.

Eventually, Enjolras moves away from the bed. The bathroom door clicks shut, and Grantaire lets out a sharp breath. He is so, so fucked.

His only hope is to fall asleep before Enjolras emerges, but though he'd have said ten minutes earlier that he was so tired he could have fallen asleep between one breath and the next, now sleep refuses to come. Every tiny sound coming from the bathroom sets his nerves alight, makes tension curl down his spine, makes his breath come faster and makes him squeeze his eyes shut tighter in response.

When Enjolras comes out, his footsteps are quiet and shuffling across the carpet. Grantaire feels strung so tight he's surprised he doesn't vibrate right out of the bed. Enjolras's footsteps pause beside the bed, and the duvet shifts as he eases it back. Being careful not to uncover Grantaire and expose him to the cold air, Grantaire thinks, and has to bite back an oath.

The mattress shifts beneath Enjolras's weight. Grantaire's hand is curved into an aching fist around the edge of his pillow. He should have just let Enjolras take the armchair, or insisted on taking the bathtub, or confiscated the car keys and gone down and slept in the backseat. Either way, he's not getting any sleep tonight.

Enjolras lies still on his side of the bed, his breathing slow and measured, but it feels too careful for it to be the rhythms of sleep, not yet. Maybe once he's drifted off, Grantaire will be able to sleep as well, he thinks. Maybe. If there's any mercy at all in the universe.

As soon as he realizes he is paying far too much attention to Enjolras's breathing than is good for him, Grantaire tries to wrench his focus away But there's nothing else, nothing but to keep his eyes shut tight and count his own breaths, each ragged inhale and unsteady exhale. All that does is make him keenly aware of how tense he is, and how far from sleep.

A sigh from the other side of the bed makes him stiffen. "R." Enjolras sounds weary, resigned. "Just go to sleep."

The only responses Grantaire has, he can't speak, because they'd give too much away. In the end, all he does is echo Grantaire's sigh and murmur, "I'm doing my best, Apollo," into the darkness.

"Would it be better if I--"

"No. It really wouldn't."

He is going to hate himself in the morning, and probably Enjolras as well. But right now, there's nothing at all he can do about it but lay in the dark and suffer an exquisite agony, listening to the slow, reassuring cadence of Enjolras's breathing.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, doesn't remember anything except interminable hours spent in the dark certain that he never would. But he does remember that there was a careful foot of No Man's Land preserved between them, even once Enjolras had drifted off.

When he wakes up to the blaring tone of the alarm on Enjolras's phone, that space is gone. Grantaire's on his stomach, his legs splayed, one calf thrown across Enjolras's, his arm pressed up tight against Enjolras's side, his elbow digging into his ribs, Enjolras's hair tickling against the side of his neck.

He jerks away, swearing, and mutters something about devil devices to hide his reaction as a reaction to the alarm. Enjolras is stirring, shoving his hair out of his face and reaching blindly for the phone. Grantaire swings his legs over the edge of the bed and leans over, elbows on his knees, fingers pushing through his hair, so his back is to Enjolras and he can't see the state that Grantaire woke in. It's just going to lead to embarrassment all around. Mostly Grantaire's.

"How long until we have to leave?"

"I gave us forty-five minutes, to be safe." Enjolras's voice is bleary and slow with sleep and it is completely, absolutely unfair. Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his hands against them. "Forty-five minutes to check out, fifteen minutes to grab breakfast somewhere and get on the road."

Well, it's better than they've had some days. Grantaire nods without dropping his hands from his face. "Do you want the shower first?" Oh God, he needs Enjolras to get _out of the room_ so Grantaire can have a proper freak-out and get it out of his system.

Enjolras hums thoughtfully and there's sounds of shifting and movement behind Grantaire. He doesn't dare look, though. The site of Enjolras sleepy and bed-rumpled is going to slay him. "Can you manage coffee?"

"I think I am capable of handling that complicated task, yes."

"Then I'll shower while you get some for both of us. That way you can start caffeinating right away and maybe be actually awake by breakfast time."

"It's like you know me," Grantaire mutters, and gets to his feet and gropes for his jeans off the floor.

He heads out barefoot and in his rumpled shirt because fuck it, it's probably too early for anyone else to be up to see, and it's definitely too early for him to care if someone does. He and Enjolras nearly cross paths as Grantaire heads for the door and Enjolras for the bathroom. Grantaire rocks back to keep from crashing into him, and glances up out of instinct, just quick enough to catch a glimpse of tousled blond hair and sleep-heavy eyes and Enjolras's shirt pulled askew, drooping off of one shoulder. Just that, and then Grantaire jerks his gaze away and sidles around Enjolras and escapes out into the hallway, where it's blessedly empty and he can hyperventilate in peace.

Inside the elevator, gliding quietly down to the lobby, Grantaire thunks his head quietly against the wall, muttering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," until the doors slide open and the attendant out at the front leans across her desk to give him a concerned look.

He straightens and puts on a too-bright smile, comes out and greets her with a, "Good morning," and a, "Could you point me to the coffee, please?"

He totally deserves bonus points for managing to string a coherent and pleasant sentence together at this hour of the morning. And also for not laying his head down on her desk and sobbing over his sexual frustration.

She gestures him in the right direction. He takes his time filling up two cups, drinks one of them down to dregs and then refills it before loading up on sugar and sweeteners and tiny little thimbles of cream.

The desk attendant watches him go with a bemused expression that Grantaire can't be bothered to mind. He leans back into the corner of the elevator and lets his eyes slide shut briefly as it carries him back up to their floor.

When he lets himself back into the room, the shower's still going. He considers leaving Enjolras his coffee and walking back out, finding somewhere to wait until it's a little safer in there, but he'd probably just end up asleep in the elevator if he did. So instead, he puts Enjolras's coffee on the nightstand on his side of the bed, takes his own over to the other, and pulls out his phone and his headphones and plays Candy Crush with the volume turned all the way up to try to drown out the sound of the shower, and all of Grantaire's tormented thoughts with it.

It's a tactical error. It doesn't work very well to begin with, but it does mean that when the shower turns off, he doesn't hear it, and when Enjolras comes out of the bathroom, he has no warning. His gaze flies up out of instinct, drawn to the movement in his peripheral vision, and Enjolras is in a towel and wet and his hair is dripping rivulets down his chest and Grantaire nearly trips over himself in his haste to throw himself off of the bed and past Enjolras into the bathroom with a muttered, "Coffee's on the table," and his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

The bathroom is steamy and warm and does absolutely nothing to soothe Grantaire's frazzled nerves. He leans back against the door, breathing deep, but the air smells like steam and shampoo and it just makes his pulse trip harder, makes the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears deafening.

He strips his clothes off with unsteady hands, leaves them in a pile shoved in the corner and turns the water on hot enough to nearly scald. When he steps under the spray, it stings against his skin, but even that isn't distraction enough to keep his thoughts from Enjolras. From Enjolras in his towel, from Enjolras in here, standing under the spray like Grantaire is now...

Grantaire drops his head back against the tile and groans. He'd probably be better off with a cold shower, at this point, but he can't make himself do it. He presses a hand against his erection instead, eyes sliding shut at the pressure. It doesn't help. And he can't go back out there and face Enjolras in a state like this. 

He meant the pressure on his cock to stave off his need, to give him an edge to his control, but it scarcely helps. Despite himself, he curls his fingers and takes hold of himself. This time, the pressure just makes his lungs stutter, makes him dig his teeth into his lip to stifle a groan.

This is so fucking wrong. Enjolras is his friend, is his _editor_. And Grantaire's managed to keep a grip on his infatuation until now, has managed to mostly ignore it or at least work past it, but he was not prepared for this. There's only so much that his self-control can take, and this is far beyond its limits.

He succumbs with a groan that he can only hope is drowned out by the shower. The water pours over him as he strokes himself, quick, tight pulls that push him closer to the edge that he's been stumbling toward ever since last night. Images of Enjolras flash through his mind, rumpled and half-asleep, wet and dripping from the shower, fully-clothed but smiling at Grantaire with a crooked little cant to his mouth like he's honestly amused. Enjolras with his brows furrowed, with his expression set in irritation or concentration, with his eyes alight with the fire of a well-reasoned argument.

It's pure objectification and Grantaire is probably a bastard for indulging it, but fuck it, he's so hard it hurts, and he's not going to be able to survive hours in the car with Enjolras if he doesn't take care of it. He flings his arm over his eyes and jerks himself off desperately, his fist sliding over his cock, his hips stuttering, pushing into his grip. It still smells like soap in there, even stronger in the shower than it had been outside it. The soap bar's been unwrapped and has a few stray bubbles clinging to it. The shampoo and conditioner bottles have both been half emptied. Enjolras and Grantaire are going to have used the same soap, they're going to _smell the same_. Grantaire's knees threaten to give way at the thought.

There's a pounding on the door that makes him startle, then makes him swear. "We need to leave soon, R," Enjolras calls through the door.

"Fuck fuck fuck," Grantaire breathes. Then, louder, "Five minutes!"

He is the worst. But he's so fucking close, there's no turning back now.

He can't help but think about how Enjolras would react if he knew what Grantaire was doing in there, about him scowling or rolling his eyes in exasperation. And that's all it takes. He's coming, one hand thrown out to brace against the tiles as he swears and shudders and spends himself beneath the cleansing spray of the shower.

The trembling in his knees now is more than just a threat to give out. He lowers himself shakily to sit on the edge of the tub, the water hitting him square in the chest, and takes a moment to just remember how to breathe.

_Fuck it,_ he thinks, and stays there to lather his hair up with shampoo, to run the bar of soap over his skin. He tries very, very hard not to think about it rubbing over Enjolras's skin, or he's going to be right back where he started in a matter of seconds, and refractory period be damned.

Eventually, he does manage to get himself washed and shampooed and out of the shower, and he even manages it before Enjolras has completely lost patience with him and come pounding on the door again. He comes out in his towel, because he hadn't had enough foresight earlier to bring clothes with him, had just dove for cover as quick as he was able.

Enjolras already has all his things packed up when Grantaire comes out. He only glances at him briefly before he pushes up onto his feet, says, "Right. I'll just bring the car around. Meet me out front in five," and then walks straight out of the room with his bags in tow.

Grantaire's stomach twists as he stares after him. His departure seemed a little too quick, a little more brusque than his norm, even accounting for the early hour and their late night. Had he overheard what Grantaire had been up to in the bathroom after all? Had he figured it out? Oh god, Grantaire wants to sink into the floor and _die_.

Or possibly retreat back into the bathroom for round two.

He really is the absolute worst.

He dresses, because if he keeps Enjolras waiting long enough that he has to come up to get him and walks in on Grantaire furiously jerking off over him, then Grantaire will have absolutely no choice but to curl up and die of mortification. He even manages to do a sweep of the room and catch a phone charger that somehow found its way under the desk without anyone the wiser. He stuffs it in with his things and goes down to turn in his room key and meet Enjolras, who has the car idling at the curb out front.

"Everything okay?" Enjolras gives him a concerned look over his shoulder as Grantaire hefts his suitcase up into the back seat.

"Peachy." He swings the door shut and climbs into the passenger seat. "I think you promised me something about breakfast?"

"I did indeed." Enjolras smiles and puts the car into gear. "Do you feel like waffles, or pancakes?"


	9. Chapter 9

After breakfast, there's nothing but the long, open road in front of them. As the sun rises, Grantaire slips his sunglasses into place to shield him from the light, tips his seat back, kicks his feet up onto the dashboard, and dozes.

He's shocked he's able to sleep at all, considering Enjolras is a scant foot and a half away from him and his nerves are all still on edge from this morning and last night. But he supposes exhaustion has to win out eventually, and he'll take what he can get while he can get it. He's still got his event that afternoon, and it would be good if he wasn't completely comatose for it.

Still, it's not as though it's _restful_ sleep, not with Enjolras sitting right there, humming along with the radio and tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Grantaire drifts off, just deep enough for Enjolras to make an appearance in his dreams, smiling and looking quizzical or staring at Grantaire like he can't figure out how it's possible for him to be such an idiot, and Grantaire jerks awake again with his heart hammering, glancing guiltily at Enjolras. And Enjolras just gives him a smile and says, "We've another two hours before we even hit the edge of town, you can sleep a little longer if you like," and Grantaire settles down again and the cycle repeats itself.

Enjolras is either completely oblivious or impressively circumspect, because he never once gives any indication that he's noticed that Grantaire spends the whole drive half hard and squirming in his seat, trying to find a position that isn't uncomfortable without drawing attention to the problem.

The event goes fine, and because it's an afternoon event, not an evening one, it ends early enough for them to get to their hotel and check in at a decent hour. They've got reservations for this one, and two separate rooms, thank god, and if Grantaire spends the first hour of his evening in the shower with his hand on his dick, well, he'll never admit to it.

He's just climbing out, weak-kneed and feeling loose enough that maybe he can actually manage to get a decent night's sleep, when his phone starts ringing from where he'd left it plugged in on the bedside table.

Éponine's name is on the phone's screen, and it's a rush of relief to have her to talk to, someone whose friendship and companionship isn't inextricably tied up with Grantaire's helpless infatuation. He pins the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he connects the call. "Hey, Ep. Are you calling to tell me that I've gone viral and sold out my run already and the book's going back for a second printing and I can retire rich and happy and rest on my laurels?"

There's a beat of silence, and then a breath of laughter. "No such luck, I'm afraid." It's not her true laughter, not genuine and unrestrained, and that makes Grantaire frown and drop down onto the edge of the bed, still clad in nothing but his towel.

"God damn it." He sighs it, more a voicing of resignation than anger. "All right, tell me. Out with it. You know I can't stand to be left hanging."

Éponine, bless her, is the sort of person who will take him at his word when he says something like that. "St. Cloud called me today," she says.

Grantaire is swearing before she's even finished speaking. "You told them they can go to hell, right? I mean, you hardly need to ask me what my response to them is going to be, I'm sure you know it already. But in case you feel the need, you have my permission to tell them that exactly. Use those exact words, it'd make my day."

"Don't tempt me." There's a smile in her voice now, at least. That's something. "But no, actually, I'm not checking in to see what you want me to tell them on your behalf, because they didn't actually call to try to talk to _you_."

That leaves him frowning blindly across the hotel room, his fingers curled around the phone tight enough to ache. It doesn't make any sense. "Then why did they call? What did they want?"

"To solicit me. They tried to sweet talk me into giving them right of first refusal on your next book."

All the air explodes from Grantaire's lungs. "Are you fucking kidding me? I don't even grant my actual publishers that, what the hell makes them think I'm going to give it to some pushy, pretentious--"

"I already told them all that." She sounds dry, amused. He can hear the staccato of her fingernails tapping on her desk. "Maybe with a little less profanity."

"Shame."

"I'm not going to let any high-brow assholes push me into doing something for them, rather than for you. You're the one who cuts me the checks, and I'm not going to compromise that, you don't need to worry."

"I'm not worried, Ep." He lets his breath out on a rush. "I just wish you'd given those guys the kick in the ass that they deserve."

"Don't think I wasn't tempted. It's a terrible business practice, though, unfortunately. I was obligated to take the high road."

She sounds so put-out about it, too. It's enough to get Grantaire to give a breath of reluctant laughter, at least. "You poor thing."

"Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up, let you know that they wanted you bad enough to try to be underhanded about it."

"I appreciate that, I really do."

"You're not going to do anything stupid over this, are you?"

"What, like catch the first plane back home and bail out on all my other events just so I can give those guys the ass-kicking they deserve?" She doesn't laugh, which is answer enough. Grantaire huffs out a breath and flops back onto the bed. "No. It's tempting, but no. I'm not going to self-sabotage just because they're being a bunch of assholes."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it. And if they get in touch with you again and you want to direct them to me, feel free. I'm happy to run interference if it means you get to concentrate on your work. You know I have your back, R."

"I do know it. Thank you, Éponine."

"Any time, kiddo. Get some sleep."

When they've disconnected, it's all Grantaire can do not to throw his phone across the room and watch it smash to pieces against the wall. It would be viscerally satisfying and ultimately foolhardy, but the temptation is strong, and Éponine didn't say anything about avoiding wanton technological destruction when she told him not to do anything stupid.

He's saved from himself by a knock at the door. After this long on the road together, he recognizes Enjolras by his knock, and he groans and rubs his hands over his face for a moment before Enjolras knocks again, and Grantaire pushes himself upright and pulls pants on before he goes over to answer the door.

Enjolras takes him in with a quick glance, and apparently there's something distasteful about Grantaire being shirtless because it makes the corners of his mouth tighten before he lifts his gaze back to Grantaire's. "I was wondering if you wanted to go out and grab something for dinner."

Grantaire laughs a little, without any humor at all, and leans his forehead against the door jamb. "You want to know if I want to get _back_ in the car, Apollo? After the past two days?"

"I want to know if you're hungry, and if you'd like to get out of your hotel room for a few hours." Enjolras shakes his head quickly and turns away. "Just tell me no, if you'd rather not. That's all it takes."

It is a really terrible night for it. Between the long hours of frustration in the car, and now Éponine's phone call, Grantaire's hardly fit for company, and not much interested in it anyway. But Éponine told him not to do anything stupid, and if he stays here he's not likely to do much more than drink the entire contents of the mini-fridge, and alcohol poisoning probably counts pretty high on her list of stupid things to not do.

"Wait," he calls after Enjolras, already cursing himself as an idiot. He squeezes his eyes shut and thunks his head against the jamb again. "Sorry, no, it's a good idea. Just give me two minutes to put on a shirt and find my shoes?"

Enjolras comes back, smiling a little bit. "Sure. As long as you need. There's no rush." He invites himself into the room and sits on the end of Grantaire's bed to wait, and Grantaire has to turn sharply away because the feeling of Enjolras's attention on him as he finishes getting dressed is sending nerves twisting through his stomach.

It takes Grantaire less than the promised two minutes to get ready, though that's in no small part due to Enjolras taking it upon himself to find his left shoe where it had gone under the bed when Grantaire had kicked it off on his way to the shower. Two minutes after that, they're back in the car and on the road, and Grantaire is kind of regretting he hadn't smuggled out at least one mini bottle of vodka.

"Feeling like anything in particular for dinner?"

Grantaire leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes against the flashing streetlights. "Food? Food sounds good."

Enjolras gives a breath of laughter. "Maybe something a little bit more specific than that?"

"I don't know, Apollo." _Food_ is about the best he can manage right now, but when he cracks his eyes open, Enjolras is glancing over at him, his brows lifted, expectant.

"Come on, don't give me a cop out answer." Enjolras is teasing, light-hearted. He reaches across the space between them and nudges Grantaire's arm. "Surely you can think of something you'd like to eat. If it was just you, what would you have for dinner?"

"Vodka, most likely," Grantaire says, and keeps his gaze fixed out the window so he won't have to see Enjolras's disappointment. Even so, he can hear it in the long stretch of Enjolras's silence, and eventually he gives a sharp sigh. "Look, you asked."

Enjolras remains quiet a moment longer, nothing but the sound of the engine and the occasional clicking of the turn signal as he navigates through town. "All right," he says at last. "I'll choose. But you'd better order something a bit more substantial than vodka when we get there. You've made it this far through the tour relatively unscathed, I'd hate to see you start burning yourself out now, when we're in the home stretch."

Grantaire says nothing, just keeps his eyes shut and waits for them to reach whatever restaurant Enjolras decides on.

When Enjolras brings the car to an idle, then pulls the parking brake and shuts the ignition off, Grantaire cracks an eye open. He's expecting someplace fancy, someplace _Enjolras_ , where he'll end up with a bowl of flavored foam for supper again. Instead, they seem to be parked in front of a small, local place, the sort that's probably family-run and very homey. It's definitely a Grantaire sort of place to eat, and he slides Enjolras an uncertain frown.

Enjolras pretends he hasn't noticed and opens his door. "Come on," he says. "Looks like they're not too busy, hopefully we won't have to wait long. I'm starved."

Grantaire follows him in. Inside, it turns out to be exactly what it looked like from the parking lot, simply decorated and full of smells that just screamed comfort food, with a strong familial resemblance between the woman manning the hostess station and the waitress who comes by their table, once they're seated, to introduce herself and offer them water.

"Stop looking at me like I've been replaced by a pod person," Enjolras says as he scans his menu. "Just because I can enjoy haute cuisine doesn't mean it's the only food I'm capable of liking. I looked this place up on Yelp, and their French dip comes highly recommended."

"I wouldn't look at you like you were a pod person if you weren't acting like an _alien_." The French dip does sound good, though, and the menu says it comes with a side of fries, which sounds even better. Grantaire wonders how smug Enjolras will be, and how insufferable about it, if Grantaire goes ahead and orders the sandwich.

He orders it anyway, because he's not in the mood to deprive himself right now. To his surprise, Enjolras doesn't look smug or insufferable at all, just immensely pleased.

Enjolras orders a tuna melt, which also comes with fries, and doesn't even ask about swapping them out with steamed veggies or something equally appalling. Grantaire stares at him until Enjolras notices and frowns. "What?"

"Not even a salad? You _are_ a pod person."

"It is possible to be someone who likes salads _and_ enjoys french fries, you know."

Grantaire grunts, unconvinced. When their food comes, he watches Enjolras as he swipes his fries through ketchup and bites into them. There isn't a green thing on his plate, except the bit of wavy-leafed lettuce that served as garnish. Grantaire thinks if he were less suspicious of it all, he'd be proud enough to burst.

The meal goes pleasantly enough, if a bit quieter than is their norm, until they're both drinking their milkshakes, and then Enjolras sits back, stirs a straw through his, and catches Grantaire's eye across the table. "All right. Will you tell me what's going on now?"

Grantaire startles and pushes the cup away from him. "Nothing's going on."

"You've been in a mood all night."

Grantaire's stomach twists, and the sweetness of the ice cream leaves him feeling nauseous. "Look, you're the one who dragged me with you, you didn't have to bring me along, you can hardly blame me if you're not enjoying yourself now." That's unfair, he wasn't dragged. But it's not like Grantaire's bad mood had been a secret from the moment he'd opened the door to Enjolras's knock. And Enjolras had invited him to dinner anyway. He'd known what he was getting into.

Enjolras gives a sharp sigh and frowns like he's annoyed. "That's not what I mean. I'm just wondering, R. I'm here for you to talk to, if there's something you'd like to get off your chest. That's all."

"If I wanted to talk, I'd do it," Grantaire snaps, and then shuts his eyes and breathes deep, regretting it. "I'm sorry. It's not you I'm upset with." Though that's maybe a little bit of a lie. Enjolras is going to leave, he's going to make his career with St. Cloud or with some other pretentious literary press if they won't have him without Grantaire, and it's going to make Grantaire's job about a hundred times less fun. But he can hardly ask Enjolras to stay in a job he doesn't enjoy, any more than Enjolras has the right to ask Grantaire to write in a genre he hates. He takes another careful breath and opens his eyes to meet Enjolras's questioning gaze. "Look, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to figure out how to get St. Cloud to hire you without the package deal, okay?"

Enjolras sits back in his seat, his brows lifting. "What brought this on?"

All the air hisses out of Grantaire's lungs, a rush of anger that's been brewing every since Éponine's phone call. "Them being pretentious assholes, that's what."

"R--"

"No! God. No. You're not going to talk me into it." He presses the heels of his hands to his brow and just breathes. "Please don't try. _Please_ , Apollo. You're just going to make me hate you as much as I hate them, and I'd really rather you didn't."

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Good. Because they could offer me a million-dollar contract right now and I wouldn't take it. I'd rather spend the rest of my life writing second-rate genre pulp and eking out a meager existence than letting them make a single cent off of words that I've written."

Every word Grantaire speaks makes Enjolras's frown grow a little deeper, a little more troubled. "You don't write second-rate--"

"No. I know what you think I write." Grantaire's laughter is a little wild, a little manic. "You think I write _literary_ , or that I should, and if I had it in me right now I think I'd hate you a little bit for equating me with those people in any way at all. But you wouldn't be trying so hard to get me to change if you didn't look down on what I wrote at least a little bit, would you? I know how you feel about genre fiction." He stabs at Enjolras with his spoon and gets a splatter of chocolate milkshake on the tabletop. "You think it's the lowest common denominator, designed for mass appeal by stripping out anything artistic or creative. You've said as much already, Apollo, it's no secret." He stabs again, this time at Enjolras's plate, and the few fries left on it, soaking in a puddle of ketchup. "It's french fries, right? Momentarily satisfying, but in the end, devoid of anything nutritiously worthwhile, just a bunch of empty calories leading the whole country down the path to a terrible diet. You'd have us all eating salads and steamed vegetables and wheatgrass smoothies, and you'd extoll the virtues of it all, the nutrients and the health benefits, and maybe you'd be right. But _maybe_ , what you're failing to consider is that people actually like french fries, and when they decide to eat them, it's not because they're looking for something healthy and they happen to think fries fit the bill. They choose that because they _enjoy_ it, they read spec fic because they enjoy it and that's what they're looking for, enjoyment, not nutrients and not artistic merit or whatever the fuck it is that you think makes literary so much better than everything else. They just want something that's going to make them happy. And you are never, ever going to convince me that devoting my career to making people happy is somehow _selling myself short_."

When he stops for air, he's a little startled by the litany that's come pouring out of his mouth, and he blinks at Enjolras. Enjolras just watches him in silence, his mouth folded up tight, something unpleasant drawing frown lines into his brow. He takes two long, careful breaths, then unfolds, uncrossing his arms and rising up out of his seat. "I'm going to go track down our waitress," he says quietly, carefully. "And I'm going to pay our bill, and then we're going to go home. All right?"

It speaks to how long they've been on the road that Grantaire doesn't even think to protest calling the hotel _home_ , he just sighs, takes one last sip of his milkshake, and grabs up his things to leave.

The drive back to the hotel is filled with a silence that's tense and unhappy. Enjolras's shoulders are tight and his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, and he keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead of them, even though Grantaire knows that normally, when he drives, his eyes are constantly moving, checking his mirrors and his blind spots. It's a shock to his system, to see Enjolras sitting there, practically motionless but for his feet operating the pedals and his hands the wheel.

Twice, Enjolras glances at him, and as soon as he finds Grantaire watching him back, he jerks his gaze forward again. Grantaire sighs and, eventually, sinks down in his seat and drapes an arm over his eyes. It would be easier if Enjolras was angry with him, they could just shout it out and be done with it. But though Enjolras is palpably unhappy, Grantaire can't feel any anger coming off of him. It's more a helpless sort of unrest, like Grantaire is a puzzle Enjolras can't figure out how to solve and he's finding it distressing.

Grantaire should probably feel guilty about that. He definitely should, and maybe he does a little bit, a twinge of regret deep in the pit of his stomach. But Grantaire _is_ angry, and it burns too hot for him to be able to let go of it any time soon.

When they reach the hotel, Enjolras just grabs the keys out of the ignition, climbs out of the car, and starts for the doors, leaving Grantaire to hurry if he wants to catch up. They don't speak during the elevator ride up, and when the elevator stops at Enjolras's floor, the only farewell he gives Grantaire is a curt, "Get some sleep. I'll meet you at six fifteen in the lobby."

Grantaire lets the doors slide shut between them without giving a response. Once he's alone, the elevator gliding silently up again, he thunks his head back against the wall and groans.

This is a complete nightmare. And he's got no one to blame for it but himself.

No, that's not fair. St. Cloud deserves its fair share of the credit, too. Grantaire's mood had been doing just fine, before they decided to try underhanded tactics to try to get Grantaire to write for them.

He lets himself into his room and doesn't bother turning the lights on, just crosses it in the dark and drops down face-fist onto the bed.

He lies there for long moments, wishing for sleep. When it doesn't come, eventually he rolls over and wrestles his clothes off and manages to get the blankets out from underneath him so he can crawl under them. But even then, sleep remains elusive. He lies in the dark, his eyes squeezed shut, and though he does his best to keep his mind quiet, still he can't help but think about how it had been the night before, with the warmth of Enjolras beside him tangible, even though they didn't touch, and his breathing a quiet reassurance. Grantaire hadn't been able to sleep then, either, but Enjolras's presence with him had made the insomnia tolerable. Now, all Grantaire has is cold sheets on an empty bed and the fury that whips through him, stirring his thoughts into a turmoil and keeping sleep well at bay.

It's a long night, and morning, when it comes, comes far too early, and Grantaire drags himself out of bed feeling like he hasn't slept at all.


	10. Chapter 10

It feels like torture, having to get back onto another plane the next morning. Grantaire can't even take the opportunity to catch up on the sleep he missed the night before, because every nerve cell in his body is painfully aware of Enjolras beside him, the intent stare he keeps fixed on his tablet as they fly to their next stop in LA, the tight set to his lips that sets lines into his face, bracketing his mouth, the way he's still barely looking at Grantaire and always glancing quickly away again whenever Grantaire catches him at it.

Grantaire hates it all. He hates the planes and the airports and the constant press of people, he hates the never-ending string of hotels and rental cars. He wants it all to be done with, he wants to go home, where he'll have his own bed and his own things, his own kitchen. He wants to be able to cook a meal for himself for once, instead of these countless numbers of meals spent in restaurants or bent over trays of food brought by room service. He wants plates and tables and a dishwasher, he wants his own coffee made the way he likes it in his own coffee machine. He wants things to go back to normal, and he hates that he wants it because he knows they never will.

He'll go back home, sure. And then Enjolras will leave for greener pastures and better opportunities, and _normal_ will never be the same again. And Grantaire won't even be able to make himself be happy for him, because with every book that Enjolras puts out and every new author that he takes on, Grantaire will know that his publisher is treating him like shit, and that he deserves so much better.

It's no surprise, when they land in LA, that Grantaire's bad mood has turned downright black. He rallies as best he can for the event, putting on a smile that's one hundred percent lie. And he thinks maybe he'll be able to fake his way through the event after all, at least until a young woman approaches him between the reading and the signing, looking uncertain and maybe a little starstruck, and tells him about the writing class she took in university that marked off points for every assignment she turned in with a speculative element, and how it had jaded her on writing for years, but reading his books has helped her remember what she loves about the genre, and she's started to think about trying her hand at it again. Does he have any advice, she asks him earnestly, when it comes to seeking critique and finding a like-minded writing group?

"Oh, fuck them," Grantaire finds himself saying before it can occur to him to second-guess his words. "Seriously, fuck them all. You don't owe anything to anybody. But you do owe it to yourself to write what makes you happy. This job doesn't pay well enough for you to do anything but. If your professors look down on genre fiction, it's because they're threatened by it. Do you know what the best selling genre is in the whole industry?" She looks uncertain, so Grantaire forges ahead. "Romance. And you'll never find a genre that's more maligned or more looked-down on by ignorant assholes. So if you want advice, what I have to say to you is, crit groups are useful and valuable, but fuck anyone who criticizes your genre, instead of your craft. Life's too short to try to figure out how to work around them. Just surround yourself with people who love what you do, and who want to help you write better, not just write different. It's hard, I know it is, and it's a battle you're never going to stop fighting. Even my editor acts spec fic like it's the red-headed stepchild of the publishing industry, so trust me, I know. But the best thing you can do is to cultivate an attitude of 'fuck them' to anyone who tries to stand in your way, and just go on doing what you love."

When his momentum finally runs out, his heart's pounding and he's breathing like he's winded, and there are a lot more people staring at him, hanging on his words. The young woman looks a little shell-shocked, but also a little hopeful, and she clutches at her signed book and thanks Grantaire repeatedly, so he hopes at least some good came out of it.

The speech leaves him exhausted, though, winded and weary. As the line forms for the signing, Grantaire's grateful that they've moved on to the portion of the event that he can mostly get through on autopilot, smiling and signing his name and drawing little doodles without thinking too hard about it, making idle conversation that doesn't demand too much of him, either. When the event's done and everyone but him and Enjolras and the bookstore employees have gone home, he's profoundly relieved.

He sleeps on the drive to the hotel, more emotionally exhausted than physically, and only rouses enough to drag himself upstairs to his room and fall face-first into bed for the second night in a row.

This time, at least, he's asleep almost instantly.

#

When he wakes, it's with a start to the scream of music in his ear. He reaches out, smacking at his phone to turn the alarm to snooze, or off completely, he doesn't care as long as it's _quiet_. And when the music stops, he breathes a sigh of relief and lets himself start drifting back into oblivion, but a distant, tinny, "R? Grantaire, are you there? You're not fooling me, I can hear you breathing," jerks him back to wakefulness.

He grapples for his phone and presses it to his ear. "Who is this?" he groans. But now that he's waking up, his mind is clear enough to realize that the music hadn't been the song he'd set for his alarm after all. It was one he used as a ringtone, for-- "Éponine, for God's sake, you know it's three hours earlier here than it is in New York, right?"

"I know." Her voice is hard, her words clipped. "And you're lucky, because that means it's early enough you still have time to get up and figure out how to work some damage control."

_That_ has him scrambling his way upright, sitting hunched over with his covers puddled around him, trying to blink the grit out of his eyes. "Why? What happened? What'd I do?"

Her laughter is as short and sharp as her voice. "Oh Christ, of course you don't know. Your _event_ , R. Think real hard. Do you think maybe you said something that people might have felt like repeating?"

Grantaire tries, but his brain is scrambling, still trying to boot up. "Take pity on me," he groans. "Just tell me."

She sighs. "Get up. Turn your computer on. It won't take you long to find it. The internet's buzzing about your comments about how your editor looks down your genre. Honestly, R, what were you _thinking?_ This isn't going to do either of you any good."

Grantaire groans and rubs at the tension headache that's already growing in the center of his forehead. "I wasn't. I was just talking to someone. I didn't realize everyone was listening. I didn't think—"

"That much is obvious. I know you have to catch your flight soon, so get online and start doing some damage control, all right? No one's going to want to buy books from an editor who disrespects the genre, and that's going to have a hell of a lot more impact on _you_ than it is on Enjolras or the publisher."

"I'm sorry, Ep. I didn't mean to screw this up. I was just—" Just tired, just homesick, just heartsick. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans his head on his knees. "I'll figure something out."

"Good. And make sure you're on point at your event tonight. Anything you can do or say for damage control right now is only going to help. I'm going to have to talk to the publisher about this later today, and it would be really helpful if I could tell them that you're already on top of it."

"Right. I'll do what I can." He scrubs a hand over his eyes and staggers out of bed to get the room's coffee machine going. "I'm sorry, Ep."

Her voice softens. "I know. Good luck."

Christ, is he going to need it.

He opens his computer while the coffee's still brewing, because their early flight means he doesn't have a minute to waste. It's all over tumblr, and to a lesser extent on twitter and the odd personal blog — speculative fiction fans getting up in arms over Enjolras's disdain for the genres he publishes, long diatribes in defense of science fiction and fantasy, interspersed with people knee-jerk reacting with promises to write to the publisher in protest, or calling for boycotts. Grantaire finds a grand total of two posts pointing out to people that trying to punish Enjolras or the publisher by refusing to buy the books is only going to hurt Grantaire, in the short run, but no one seems to be paying much attention to them.

By the time he gets to the people insisting that they'll mitigate the harm a boycott would do to Grantaire's career by downloading his books and passing them around to all their friends, Grantaire has to step away and drink coffee with hands that are shaking until he's gotten control of himself.

He comes back, closes tumblr and twitter and blogger, and spends half an hour writing a post in which he explains that the comment was made thoughtlessly while under the influence of stress and exhaustion, and that Enjolras is honestly the best editor Grantaire could have ever hoped for and he didn't deserve to be characterized the way Grantaire did, and reiterating the points made by others that a boycott would do much more harm than good, and the best way to show the publisher how much they love the genre is to keep buying those books.

When he's done, he posts it to his website and his personal blog, sends it out to his mailing list, and then has to close his computer and step away before he misses his flight because he's too busy obsessively refreshing the entire internet to see if anyone even notices his posts, much less cares.

He makes it down to the lobby precisely on time. Enjolras is already down there waiting for him, tapping intently at his phone with a deep frown drawn between his brows. "I'm sorry," Grantaire says before he even glances up at him. "I'm _sorry_ , I know, this is a huge clusterfuck and it's all my fault, I'm trying to do damage control but--"

"We really don't have time to hash this out right now, R." Enjolras takes him by the elbow, gentler than Grantaire would have expected from someone in his position, and leads him toward the doors. "Traffic this morning is, by all accounts, horrendous, and we're going to need all the extra time planned into our schedule just to get to the airport without missing our flight."

Grantaire swallows down his guilt and nods, and follows Enjolras out to load their luggage into the car. Enjolras drives, and Grantaire refreshes tumblr on his phone a hundred times, watching the number of notes on his post trickle in, while the reactionary ones continue to spread like wildfire.

It seems only fair, since Enjolras is the one with every right to be upset by this turn of events, to wait for him to bring it up when he's ready to discuss it. Despite his insistence that there isn't time, they have nothing to do but talk while they're in the car stuck in traffic, or on the plane flying to their next stop. But Enjolras keeps himself buried in his gadgets, in his phone and his tablet and his laptop, and Grantaire stares out the window at the landscape passing below them and leaves him to it.

They make slow progress north, a week's worth of stops traveling up the California coast, and the fires flare up and then burn themselves out, but Enjolras still won't talk with Grantaire about any of it. He's short and curt and unfailingly polite, but there's a coolness to their interactions now that's never been there before, and Grantaire regrets it until his chest hurts, but he doesn't press it. He owes Enjolras at least that much.

Halfway up the state, when they stop in San Francisco and the weather is as gloomy and grey as Grantaire is himself, he takes advantage of a rare free afternoon to write a letter to St. Cloud. He is gracious and polite as he thanks them for their interest but is firm in his insistence that he's happy with his current publisher. And then he uses the letter as an opportunity to sing Enjolras's praises, to tell them what a boon he's been to Grantaire's books and his career, about the brilliant insight he always has to help make Grantaire's books the best they can be. He does everything he can, uses everything he has in his arsenal to convince them that Enjolras is someone they want to have working for them, because Grantaire figures that if he's trashed Enjolras's current career opportunities, then the least he can do is try to convince St. Cloud to hire Enjolras without him.

The very last stop of the tour is in Portland, Oregon, the last event held in the Mecca that is Powell's City of Books. Grantaire's always wanted to visit the store -- how can you not, when your whole life is centered around a love of books? -- but now that he's here, all he feels is bittersweet. The store is a wonder, and the fans are fabulous, but halfway through the event, Enjolras takes advantage of a quiet moment to pull Grantaire aside. He's frowning and he looks troubled and Grantaire braces himself for the worst.

"I got an email from St. Cloud," he says.

Grantaire's breath stops tight in his throat. He forces himself to breathe, to lift his brows and say, "Oh?" even as his stomach's sinking.

"They offered me the job, offered it to me officially, no more strings or conditions. But I get the feeling you already knew that."

"I didn't know anything, actually." He makes himself smile, makes himself mean it. "Congratulations, Apollo."

Enjolras lets out a sharp breath like he's annoyed, like that wasn't the response he wanted from Grantaire. "R, what did you _say_ to them?"

And now, Grantaire frowns. "Nothing to deserve you looking at me like that. Jesus, Enjolras--"

"Did you tell them you'd write for them?"

Grantaire snaps his mouth shut and stares at Enjolras, speechless.

Enjolras grips him by the arm and drags him off, away from the event and into the solitude of the shelves. "Damn it, R, this isn't what I want! I'm not going to have you making yourself miserable on my behalf."

Grantaire's brows shoot up. "Wait a minute, aren't you the one who's been trying to convince me to publish with them this whole time?" He wrenches out of Enjolras's grip.

"And aren't you the one who's insisted every step of the way that you'd hate it?" His mouth thins, but his eyes are blazing. "I don't think there's any reason for you to be miserable at St. Cloud, but what I think doesn't matter, does it? You say you will be, and I'd be a world class asshole not to take you at your word. So why?" His hands close on empty air, like he wants to grab Grantaire and shake him but can't bring himself to touch him. "I don't want the job if you're going to make yourself miserable so I can have it. _I don't want that_ , Grantaire."

Enjolras is getting so worked up, it seems only fair to let him off the hook. Grantaire sighs and leans back against the bookshelf behind him. He brings a hand up to rub at the place on his arm where Enjolras's fingers dug in and watches Enjolras's gaze track the movement. "I'm not, actually. I'm not making myself miserable." Not entirely the truth -- the thought of Enjolras leaving, of Grantaire having to work with an editor who isn't him, is its own sort of misery. But that's not what Enjolras is talking about, and if Grantaire admits to that, it'll just make him guilty over his decision to take the job. "I did write to them, but I didn't tell them I'd write for them. I told them I wouldn't, but that they were idiots if they let that keep them from snatching you up while they had the chance. I told them you were a brilliant editor, Apollo. That's all."

Enjolras stares at him for a moment. He's not quite gaping, he's too dignified for that, but it's a close thing. "Why would you do that?"

"Oh Christ. Is it so hard to understand? You want the job, but not if it's going to make me miserable. I'd prefer you stay, but with the same qualification. I'm not enough of a bastard to want you to suffer just for my sake, Apollo. I'm a little surprised you think I would."

Enjolras cringes. "Grantaire--"

He shakes his head. "I've a reading to do. Can't go missing from my own event, can I?" And he slips past Enjolras and returns to the crowd. He can feel Enjolras's gaze follow him the entire way, but he doesn't turn back to look.

#

When the event's over and everyone's mingling around and making slow progress toward the doors, Grantaire leaves the clean-up to the others and slips away into the stacks.

The rows of shelves seem endless, a city of books indeed. The rest of the store is dark, the lights turned low in preparation for closing. It's quiet and empty back there, just Grantaire and the books. He wanders aimlessly, past the historical novels, past crafts and self-improvement until he finds himself, almost unawares, standing in front of the speculative fiction section, shelf upon shelf filled with the names he grew up reading, the books and authors who inspired him to write in the first place.

It feels like being in church, standing here in the dark, quiet and hushed and reverent. And there at the top of the first shelf, with its cover turned out and a sign proclaiming _NYT BESTSELLERS_ is his own book with his own name, sitting cheek-to-jowl with some of the biggest names in the industry. Grantaire runs his fingers over the embossed letters of his name and marvels that they're here, that _he's_ here. It wasn't that long ago that he was a starving artist, fighting tooth and nail just to get his books on an editor's desk. And now he's here, not just published but successful by anyone's definition, and why isn't he happier? He should be ecstatic about everything he's accomplished, but all he really wants to do is find a dark, close space where no one will disturb him and curl up into a ball to feel sorry for himself.

Enjolras finds him there, a quiet presence. Grantaire doesn't even know when he arrives, just turns his head and finds him standing there beside him like it's inevitable. He stands there with Grantaire, in silence with him, and after a few moments have passed, he slips his hand into Grantaire's.

Grantaire holds on to him, and neither of them say a word. Enjolras is warm beside him, a solid presence, his shoulder just barely brushing against Grantaire's. Grantaire's chest hurts with it, because it's so nice just standing there with him like that, but it's bittersweet, too. Tomorrow they're flying home, and it's never going to be like this again.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning's flight is the longest yet, five hours in total to get from one coast to the other, and between their layover and the time change, it means they don't land in the city until evening, the whole day lost to travel. That's only the first thing that marks the day as strange, and it only gets worse from there.

They stand together at the baggage claim in New York, and Grantaire's heart is a stone in his throat, too thick to swallow down, too sharp to breathe past. Enjolras is at his side, watching the bags dropping down one by one onto the carousel, and Grantaire is painfully aware that this is the end.

He sees his bag tumble down and come to rest on the carousel, and he feels sick. It swings around toward them and he means to step forward and grab it, he really does. But then it's gone, gliding past and away, and he still hasn't figured out how to make his legs move.

He glances sidelong at Enjolras, his chest hurting. But Enjolras is still watching the chute, a little frown between his brows, and doesn't seem to have noticed that Grantaire has let his bag pass him right by.

Grantaire lets it circle another three times, his heart pounding with certainty that his deception's going to be found out, that Enjolras is going to turn his head and fix that frown on him and ask him why he hasn't grabbed his bag yet, and Grantaire's not going to have an answer for him. Not one he's willing to admit to, in any case.

The next time it comes around, Enjolras's bag is still nowhere to be seen and Grantaire can't delay any longer. He steps forward and grabs the handle, hauls it off the carousel and drags it back to Enjolras's side, where he crouches and fiddles with the tags and the zippers, fussing with it until finally, Enjolras makes a sharp, satisfied sound and steps forward to grab his own bag.

Then, it's easier to get to his feet and grab the handle of his bag and start to wheel it away. He can walk out of here at Enjolras's side, but he can't make himself leave Enjolras behind, even if he knows it's just delaying the inevitable.

Everything about this feels wrong. The flight's been too long, the day too far gone already. It's strange to walk out the terminal with Enjolras and then turn in opposite directions, going their separate ways instead of walking in step together. It's weird to get behind the wheel of his car when he's spent a month riding shotgun, weird for the car to be so _quiet_ , filled with only the sound of his own breathing.

He turns the radio on to fill the silence, but even that feels strange because there's no Enjolras there to argue with over who gets to choose the station, or to mock him for singing along to Top 40 songs at the top of his lungs.

He punches the seek button as he makes his way through the city toward home without even knowing why, just feeling a vague unease beneath his breast. He stops when he gets to a station playing oldies. Something slots into place in his chest, and for the first time that day something feels _right_.

That lasts twenty minutes, until the first notes of "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" start playing and Grantaire has to pull over and fight for breath past the thickness closing up his throat.

This is ridiculous. He isn't this sort of person, to cry in his car over a song and a boy. He smacks at the radio controls blindly until it changes to something else, _anything_ else. After a few minutes of deep, unsteady breathing and some stupid country song on the radio, Grantaire is feeling steady enough to get back onto the road.

When he gets home and lets himself into his apartment, it's cold and empty and feels somehow both familiar and foreign. It's been a month since he's been home and there's nothing in the fridge that won't have spoiled in his absence, so he digs out his stack of take-out menus and calls in an order for delivery as he changes into something more comfortable than his travel clothes.

That's strange and somehow wrong, too, to not have to negotiate where they're eating with Enjolras first. He opts for Indian food, buys curry and samosas and naan because they're as close as take-out comes to comfort food, and then he flops down on his back on the couch and tries to convince himself that he's really home, that this is really real, that he can go to bed when he wants and sleep as late as he wants and there won't be any airplanes waiting for him in the morning.

That's a comforting thought, at least. Of course, there won't be Enjolras waiting for him, either, and that thought is significantly less cheerful.

Twenty minutes later, the knock at the door that he's been waiting for comes. He drags himself up off the couch and onto his feet with a groan, grabs his wallet from where he left it on the kitchen counter, and goes to answer the door. He's wearing ratty sweatpants and a bleach-stained t-shirt, but fuck it. Who cares what the delivery guy thinks about his fashion choices?

"You brought veggie samosas, not lamb, right?" he asks as he opens the door, and then freezes.

There's no delivery man waiting in the hallway. It's Enjolras, with a manic look in his eye and holding a paper grocery bag that's straining at the seams. He's already got his mouth open to say something, but he stops and frowns and then says, "I didn't get samosas?"

"What—" Grantaire's voice comes out thin and breathless. "Apollo? What are you doing here?"

It's stupid. It's so, so stupid to be so happy to see him. It's so stupid to miss someone so much, when it's only been a handful of hours since they've been apart.

"I turned down St. Cloud's offer."

"You— _What?_ " Grantaire stares at him, and his chest aches. "Why would you—" Christ, and after Grantaire went to the trouble of writing that email to them in the first place, and after he's put so much effort into being understanding and supportive. He passes a hand over his forehead.

"Can I come in?" Enjolras shoves through the door without waiting for answer or invitation. He hefts his bag up onto Grantaire's kitchen table and then turns to face him squarely. "I need to show you this."

"Okay." Grantaire follows him in, at a loss. He shakes his head, befuddled. "Show me what?"

Enjolras reaches into the bag and starts pulling out books. He stacks them on the table, watching Grantaire like they're supposed to mean something, and it takes Grantaire a second to realize why.

They're _his_ books, they're all his, battered and dog-eared, their covers scuffed and much-abused. Grantaire takes one as Enjolras sets it down and flips through it with a breathless laugh. "Christ. What did you do, buy out every used bookstore in the city?"

"What? No." The gaze Enjolras fixes him with is intent, intense. It makes Grantaire's throat go dry, makes his ribs squeeze tight. "No, R, they're mine."

Grantaire blinks at him. Before he can take that in, before he can figure out how to respond to that in any way at all, Enjolras gives a low growl like he's frustrated and grabs one of the books. "Here. Look." He shoves it into his hands.

Grantaire looks down at it. It's his first novel, and it's a disaster. The cover has been torn and taped up in two different places, the edges are worn and frayed, there are nearly a dozen dog-eared pages and a waviness to some of the pages that suggests water damage. It looks like it's been well-loved, but Grantaire doesn't know how to say that without his voice breaking and maybe his self-control along with it. Instead, he clears his throat and ducks his head and says, "Christ, you're hard on your books, aren't you?"

The look Enjolras gives him is flat and sees right through him. "It's like that because I love it, R. I've read it... God. I've lost count. I couldn't even guess. I've read all of them over and over again, but this one... It's my favorite."

"Oh Jesus," Grantaire breathes. His hands are shaking. He rubs one over his eyes, but when he drops it, Enjolras is still here and this is still happening. "I think maybe I should be embarrassed. I write a lot better now than I did when I wrote that."

"I know. But it was our first. It's special."

"Enjolras..." He's going to fall apart if Enjolras keeps this up. Grantaire doesn't know why he's here, why he felt the need to come over and take Grantaire apart with this information. He'd been doing all right, until Enjolras had come over. He'd had things under control.

Enjolras moves in close, close enough that instinct drives Grantaire back, to preserve the distance between them, but Enjolras curls his hands in the collar of Grantaire's shirt and holds him in place. "I don't think what you write is trash. I don't think it's second-rate pulp, or that you're pandering to the lowest common denominator. I _love_ what you write, R."

Grantaire swallows against the lump that's choking him. "Did you come here just to give me an ego boost? Because it's appreciated, but it's not really nec—"

Enjolras's fingers tighten on his collar, pulling Grantaire in as he leans close and then his lips are on Grantaire's, his breath skating over him warm and miraculous, and Grantaire grabs onto him so hard he probably leaves bruises.

"What," he gasps, and Enjolras presses his advantage, pushes in close and glides his tongue over Grantaire's lip and Grantaire's head is spinning, his ears are ringing, he's dying, he has to be, there's no other explanation. He is not this lucky. Their plane crashed and he's died and someone has made a terrible mistake and allowed him into Heaven, and he only realizes he's breathing this against Enjolras's lips when he gives a breath of laughter and slides his hands up to frame Grantaire's face.

He draws back slowly, and Grantaire yearns after him. Enjolras blinks his eyes open slowly and looks at Grantaire, and his lips curve on a private smile. "I've been wanting to do that for weeks. Since Jehan's reading, and sharing baklava at that Greek place."

"Weeks? You've been waiting for weeks? You're a horrible person."

It only makes Enjolras's smile grow. "And you're a dreadful tease. As many times as you've been half-dressed around me — when you changed our tire, my _god_. You're lucky I didn't jump you right there on the side of the road."

"Lucky you _didn't?_ " Grantaire's laughter is unsteady, disbelieving. "Luck would have been if you _had_." He leans his forehead against Enjolras's and pushes his hands through his hair. It seems like a miracle when Enjolras lets him, when he pushes into his touch and hums like he actually likes it. "You're one to talk. I jerked off in the shower the morning after that hotel room fiasco." That seems like the sort of thing he can say now, with Enjolras's breath on his lips and him talking about _jumping_ him like it's not a shock to Grantaire's world.

Enjolras's gaze flashes to his, and his smile turns sharp and just a little wicked. Grantaire's never seen him like that before, and oh god, he _likes_ it. "Bastard. I had to wait until I had the privacy of my own room."

"Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus, Enjolras, you can't say things like that, you're going to kill me." Grantaire leans his forehead against Enjolras's again and just fights for breath, overcome by the mental picture, overcome by just the _idea_ of Enjolras with his hand on his dick, of Grantaire being the reason.

Enjolras tips his head and lets his smile curve wicked and sharp against Grantaire's mouth. He bites at Grantaire's lips, and when Grantaire parts them with an unsteady breath, Enjolras tightens his hands in his hair and sweeps inside, and Grantaire's lost.

He staggers back, ends up with his back against the edge of the counter, Enjolras in his arms, shuffling forward to make room for himself between Grantaire's legs, and Grantaire cradles his head in his hands and kisses him until Enjolras's breath goes ragged and his eyes, when he pulls back, are glazed.

He runs his tongue over his lip and Grantaire's gaze fixes on it. He leans in to follow after it, but Enjolras holds him back with a hand in the center of his chest, breathing deep. "You should get that," he says, and it's only then that Grantaire realizes that someone's knocking insistently on the door. "It's your samosas."

"I don't give a flying fig about my samosas," Grantaire says, but he wrenches himself away from Enjolras all the same, despite the herculean effort it takes, and stomps across the apartment to tear open the door and throw a handful of twenties at the delivery man outside. "Thank you very much, keep the change," he says, and swings the door shut again, and turns to find Enjolras behind him, ready to slip into his arms again, and that's really more of a miracle than Grantaire deserves.

He leaves the bag of food on the floor just inside the entryway, slides his arms around Enjolras and presses him back against the door and kisses him until they're both breathless and clinging to one another.

Grantaire could do this forever, he could die happy in Enjolras's arms, just like this. It's Enjolras who ends the kiss, breaking away and turning his face aside with a breathless laugh, avoiding Grantaire's kisses when he tries to lure him back in again. "R," he says.

Grantaire leans his head against Enjolras's shoulder, fighting for air. "I want to fuck you." The words make Enjolras shudder against him, sharp and hard, and that makes Grantaire grin so hard his face hurts. "Can I?"

" _Yes._ God, R, of course." Enjolras still avoids him when Grantaire tries to kiss him again, though. "But not against your front door." He pushes at Grantaire's shoulder, not hard enough to really mean it. "Come on, R, show me your bedroom."

"Oh God, it's probably a disaster. It hasn't been aired out in weeks. I think I left dirty clothes on the floor."

"I don't care."

"Sure, you say that _now_..." But Grantaire sweeps him into his arms again all the same, and leaves biting kisses on his lips as he guides him backwards, around the kitchen table and down the hall to the bedroom. He flicks the lights on with one hand, throws a glance over Enjolras's shoulder, and navigates him around the piles of clothes on his bedroom floor.

And then they're at the bed and Enjolras's calves are pressed up against the edge of the mattress. He drops down onto it and Grantaire just has to stand there and stare at him for a moment, because this has to be a dream and when he wakes up, he wants to be sure he remembers it.

Enjolras gives him a moment, and then his face twists and he gets his legs underneath him and rises up onto his knees at the edge of the bed. It puts them almost back on the same level again. Enjolras's gaze is clear and direct as he leans in and catches a fistful of Grantaire's shirt.

He pulls Grantaire up onto the bed. Grantaire kneels with him, their knees slotted together, Enjolras's hand spread wide over his chest, pressing firm enough that Grantaire can feel his heartbeat battering against the touch. "Is this a dream?" he wonders quietly, skimming a fingertip over Enjolras's shoulder, because he can't help.

Enjolras huffs and rolls his eyes and for just an instant he looks so perfectly irritated that Grantaire knows it can't be, that it has to be real, because there's no way his imagination could recreate that expression so exactly. "Get your clothes off, R," he says, full of exasperation, and Grantaire's hands move automatically to the hem of his shirt.

Enjolras slides back on the bed and starts pulling at his own clothes, too, and if he wants Grantaire naked that was a tactical error because Grantaire freezes with his shirt half wrestled off to watch him, to watch as his hands move lithe over the buttons of his shirt, revealing the strength of his chest underneath. And then he shrugs it off and reaches for his pants and Grantaire makes a high, desperate sound that draws Enjolras's attention back to him.

His mouth twists, and then curves with reluctant amusement. "Do you need help?" He moves forward again and puts his hands over Grantaire's, helping him draw the shirt up and off.

"I can't believe I let you see me in these ratty clothes," Grantaire breathes. Enjolras's hands drop to the drawstring of his sweatpants and Grantaire loses his voice. "I can't believe you didn't take one look at me and run for the hills."

Enjolras rolls his eyes at him again. It should really, really not be as sexy as it is. He bends his head down and scrapes his teeth over the curve of Grantaire's shoulder. "I want a lot more than one look."

"You're going to kill me," Grantaire laments. "I had so many more books I wanted to write, too."

"You're going to write all of them. Dozens and dozens." Enjolras pushes Grantaire's sweatpants down around his knees. Grantaire's not wearing underwear underneath, and he'd be mortified by that if it didn't make Enjolras's face burn so bright. "I want to read them all," he says as he stretches out onto his back and pulls Grantaire over him.

He still hasn't gotten his own pants off, so Grantaire knees between his knees and works at the fly until it comes open. Enjolras's chest heaves at the quiet rasp of the zipper as Grantaire pulls it down. 

Grantaire inches Enjolras's briefs down along with his pants. He's hard, and his dick rises up like a fucking invitation when Grantaire frees it from the restraint of Enjolras's clothes, and Grantaire stops with Enjolras's pants still caught around mid-thigh because it's flushed scarlet and a little crooked and Grantaire has to get his mouth on him before he dies.

Enjolras gives a hoarse shout when Grantaire takes him into his mouth, and his hands fly up to the back of Grantaire's head, though he doesn't grab or pull. He just keeps them there, a light weight, a gentle reminder of his presence as Grantaire laps around the head of his cock and then wraps his lips around him. He sucks gently, testing, and Enjolras's hips buck up off the bed.

He tastes like salt and skin, and he responds so beautifully that Grantaire's lost. He curves his hands around Enjolras's hips, holding him down, and takes more of him, listening as Enjolras's ragged breaths turn to sobs above him.

"Where," Enjolras gasps, his fingers tightening briefly in Grantaire's hair. "R, _where?_ "

Grantaire pulls off of him. He frowns at the loss, but makes up for it with a hand wrapped around Enjolras's dick, stroking him. "Nightstand. Bottom drawer. On the left."

Enjolras throws an arm out and gropes blindly. Grantaire watches him from under hooded eyes, his hand still gliding slowly over Enjolras's cock, his tongue lapping at the head of it because he's an addict already, he's never going to be able to get enough of him.

Enjolras finds them after a moment, the bottle of lube and the condoms that Grantaire keeps tucked away in there. He makes a sharp, victorious sound, and his smile is a brilliant, ferocious thing as he throws them down the bed toward Grantaire.

"Somebody's in a rush," Grantaire says, a light admonishment, and bites at the inside of Enjolras's thigh.

_"R."_

Grantaire pushes his knees up, tipping Enjolras's hips to a better angle for it. His legs are shuddering and he's got a hand curled into a fist in the blankets, and Grantaire strokes a fingertip over Enjolras's entrance. He sucks in a sharp breath and the muscle jumps beneath Grantaire's touch, and if Grantaire thinks too hard about the fact that they're here like this, that Enjolras is letting him look and touch and breathe against his skin like this, he's going to die. So he moves on instinct, shifts up onto his elbows and leans in to drag his tongue over it, and thrills at Enjolras's breathless exclamation.

He doesn't linger long, because there's so much more he wants to do, just enough to feel Enjolras shake against his mouth. When he pulls away, Enjolras makes a sound of loss and tightens his hand in Grantaire's hair. He swallows the noises back when Grantaire reaches for the lube, goes very still, very quiet.

"Don't." Grantaire's hands tighten on his thighs. "Don't do that. I want to hear you."

Enjolras gasps like he's drowning, like he's been holding his breath, holding back. "You're going to kill me," he says faintly, and Grantaire shakes his head because that's not possible, Enjolras is the one who's going to kill _him_. "I want—"

Grantaire waits, but Enjolras leaves it at that, his breath winding tight in his throat. He grabs the lube and wets his fingers, and sees that Enjolras is watching him do it. "Tell me."

_"Fuck me."_

Grantaire's grin is quick and delighted, but then he has to lean his forehead against the inside of Enjolras's thigh and just breathe for a moment, breathe through the knowledge that Enjolras is vocal and needy and it's Grantaire who made him like that. "I'm going to," he says, and his words aren't steady. "What else do you want?"

Enjolras growls and twists, knocking his knee into Grantaire's shoulder almost hard enough to throw him off balance. "Damn it, R, stop being such a _tease_."

And Grantaire smiles against his skin because he's enjoying it, because there's little else in the world he wants right now more than to have Enjolras like this, beneath him and wanting him and saying these things that are going straight to Grantaire's head.

"I'm going to," he says again, and it's a promise. "Tell me how you want it."

"Like this. Just like this."

Face to face, staring down at Enjolras, watching every touch flicker through his eyes and reflect in the shape of his mouth. Oh God. Grantaire breathes some more, three quick lungfuls of air and then he shifts his weight to one elbow, freeing the other to glide lube-slick fingers across Enjolras's muscle.

He lets out a sudden rush of air like a shout and jumps beneath Grantaire's touch, that muscle clenching tight, but Grantaire stays and coaxes him with gentle strokes and kisses pressed to the insides of his thighs, and after a moment Enjolras relaxes enough for Grantaire to increase the pressure and start to work him open.

He's _tight_ , oh God. Grantaire laps at his skin as he works his finger in to the first knuckle, and then as to stop as Enjolras clenches tight around him, his hands curling in the blankets as he moans. His hips give little, eager twitches, pushing up against Grantaire's hand minutely, but he's still so tense. Grantaire murmurs soothingly until Enjolras lets out his breath and the tight grip of him eases, and then he twists his finger and works it in a little deeper.

It takes long, glorious minutes before Grantaire's opened him up enough to take the whole of his finger. Enjolras has gone quiet again, his breath stopping in his throat only to release explosively every time Grantaire moves inside him. But his face is eloquent, shifting with every touch, and Grantaire watches it closely as he slides his fingers out, squeezes on more lube, and then presses two fingertips against Enjolras's opening.

He sees when impatience at the loss turns to relief at his return, and when that relief is swamped by shock and need as he realizes Grantaire's intent. His cock drips onto his stomach and it's flushed so dark and so hard that it seems cruel to neglect it. Grantaire shifts his weight forward and takes it into his mouth, sucks it gently.

When he twists two fingers inside Enjolras, Enjolras grabs onto his shoulder and bucks his hips off the bed, fucking Grantaire's mouth, and oh god, it's so good. He swallows down more of him and works his fingers deeper, deep enough that he can curve them and find the soft, yielding shape that's his prostate, and that makes Enjolras grab onto Grantaire's shoulder and fuck up into his mouth and finally lose his silence on a string of breathless profanity.

"You're so gorgeous," Grantaire says. He has to pull off of him to say it, but he stays close, kissing and lapping up the shaft of Enjolras's cock as he works his fingers deeper, up to the third knuckle.

"R." Enjolras's voice shakes so badly that it sounds like it's going to fall apart.

"I know." He kisses down Enjolras's cock and drags his tongue over his sack.

"Now. I want you now."

Fuck fuck _fuck_. Those are never not going to be amazing words to hear. He's never not going to be completely overcome by the demand. He twists his fingers inside Enjolras, testing his readiness, and groans. "You're still so tight. Christ. I won't hurt you."

Enjolras grabs at him, a hand hooking under his shoulder and the other curved around the back of his neck to pull him up. "Go slow," he breathes, and when Grantaire is over him on hands and knees, rises up to claim a kiss. "Just go slow. I can take it."

Enjolras is sure and confident, his voice steady as he makes the promise, but Grantaire isn't so sure that _he_ can. He's already half gone just from having Enjolras underneath him and wanting him, and he can't bear the thought of going off like a teenager at the first hot clench of Enjolras around him, and leaving Enjolras disappointed.

Enjolras rises up and catches his mouth, pulling him into a kiss that goes from needy to downright filthy in a matter of seconds. Enjolras uses lips and teeth and tongue masterfully, biting at Grantaire's lips and letting them scrape between his teeth, soothing his tongue over the sting and then pulling Grantaire in close, their mouths fit tight together and their tongues tangling, until the only way to keep breathing is to share each other's breath.

"Please," Enjolras whispers between kisses, and Grantaire nods helplessly. He lets his fingers slide out of Enjolras, and swallows the sharp little whimpers and gasps from his lips, then gropes blindly for the condoms until he finds them. His hands tremble as he tears the packet open and rolls it on.

Enjolras reaches down to touch a hand to his. "You're shaking," he says softly, and his eyes search Grantaire's.

Grantaire laughs, choked. "I want this kind of a lot," he admits, and he might be embarrassed to reveal it, but it makes a smile spread across Enjolras's face like it's the best thing he could have said.

He curls his hand behind Grantaire's neck and rears up to kiss him, soft and sweet as his other hand slides down to take the place of Grantaire's and finish rolling the condom down over him. And when he's finished, he lies back, pulling Grantaire up over him, still kissing him, and they slot into place like two puzzle pieces fit together, like they're made for each other.

It's perfect. Grantaire hardly has to adjust himself at all and then he's pressing against Enjolras's entrance, fighting the urge to just buck forward and sink all the way into him because Enjolras may want this, but he's still so tight.

He's got his hand on Grantaire's cheek and his eyes fixed on his, and Enjolras holds his gaze as Grantaire slowly pushes in, just until Enjolras's breath catches and then he stops there, letting him adjust, working back and forward with tiny little flexes of his hips to ease the way.

Enjolras watches him and breathes raggedly beneath him and Grantaire tries so, so hard to be still, to make sure this is good for him. When Enjolras licks his lips and nods, Grantaire eases in a little deeper, and wraps his hand around Enjolras's cock to distract him from the discomfort of the stretch.

It feels like it takes forever, but Grantaire still isn't prepared for when he bottoms out in Enjolras, their hips pressed flush together. He strokes an unsteady hand over Enjolras's hair and kisses his temple and fights the urge to move in him, because Enjolras's hands are tight on his shoulders and his head's bent forward, his face tucked into Grantaire's neck as he breathes carefully.

"Apollo?" he asks, a breath of sound, because he has to know, he has to be sure that Enjolras is all right.

"Just give me a minute." His words come muffled against Grantaire's skin. "It's been a while. I'm out of practice."

Grantaire nods and holds as still as he can for him, until Enjolras slowly uncurls and relaxes back down onto the bed again. He fits his hands to Grantaire's shoulders and wraps his legs around his hips and nods once, decisively. "Okay," he says. "Now fuck me."

Grantaire does. God help him, he does. He tries to stay slow and gentle, kissing the sighs off of Enjolras's lips, but when an uneven stroke makes Enjolras tighten and groan beneath him like he's dying and it's the best thing that's ever happened to him, it's the first step down the slippery slope that ends with Grantaire driving into him, their flesh slapping together with every stroke as Enjolras holds on tight, his legs a vise around Grantaire's hips and his hands clawing marks down Grantaire's back. He holds Grantaire close and breathes actual filth against his ear, about how good he feels and how long he's wanted him, and when his words hitch and stutter every time Grantaire buries deep inside him, it just makes it all even more delightfully filthy.

Tension coils up Grantaire's spine and he's not far away at all, has been riding the edge for long minutes because he's determined to make this good for Enjolras. He grasps his cock and strokes him with a tight fist as he drives into him, and finally, Enjolras groans loudly and throws his head back, and his back bows off of the mattress as he comes between them.

Grantaire goes still, locked deep inside him, and watches as Enjolras's face shifts from startled to pleased to relief and finally settles into an expression of such contentment that Grantaire has to lean forward and kiss the curve of his smile.

The movement makes him shift inside Enjolras, and Enjolras catches his breath. "Sorry," Grantaire breathes, and bends his head against Enjolras's chest. "Sorry."

"Don't be." Enjolras's legs had slid off of Grantaire's hips, but he hooks one back into place now, and rocks his hips up to move Grantaire inside of him. Grantaire chokes on a groan and shakes his head, disbelieving. How can Enjolras be this perfect? And how did Grantaire manage to con the universe into letting him have this?

"Come on, R." Enjolras's hands slide over the sides of his face. "I want to see, too."

And Grantaire can't deny him, not anything and certainly not like this, so he nods and turns his head to press a kiss against Enjolras's palm and he starts moving in him again, slowly, carefully, watching for any sign of discomfort.

There isn't any, there's only awe and happiness and satisfaction, and Grantaire doesn't know what he ever did to deserve having that look turned on _him_.

He fucks Enjolras slowly this time, and comes with a sigh and his name on his lips, with Enjolras's hands in his hair and his mouth on his, tasting his breath. And when Grantaire's arms give out beneath him, spent, Enjolras twists out from beneath his weight and takes a moment to dispose of the condom, then presses in tight against him, arms and legs wrapped so tight it feels like Enjolras is never going to let him go.

It's a nice feeling. Grantaire holds onto him and presses his face into Enjolras's chest and doesn't want to ever have to let him go.

It's Enjolras who breaks the stillness of the moment first, though not for long minutes. He shifts and sighs and lifts a hand to stroke over Grantaire's hair. "R," he murmurs, and Grantaire's not sure if it's a question or just an acknowledgment.

He presses his face in tighter against Enjolras's chest. "Mm."

He doesn't see Enjolras smile, but he can hear it in the sudden easy warmth of his voice. "Oh good. Just making sure you're still alive."

"No. I'm really not. I'm dead. You've killed me."

He laughs quietly, his chest shaking against Grantaire's. "That won't do." He bends down, a hand slipping under Grantaire's chin to tip his face up, and skims a kiss across his lips.

It still feels like a miracle to Grantaire, to have Enjolras's skin pressed close to his, to have his kisses and his touches like this. He wants to duck his head, but Enjolras still has his fingers tucked beneath Grantaire's chin, so he just sighs and rolls over Enjolras, half draped across him, and props his chin on Enjolras's chest. "That was a joke, though, right? About St. Cloud?"

Enjolras's brows knit. His expression turns solemn, but he keeps his arm around Grantaire's shoulders. "No, I'm perfectly serious. I called them as soon as I left the airport and told them I was turning down the job."

"Oh Christ, Apollo. Do you know how long it took me to work up the nerve to write that letter?" He sighs, lets it growl a little bit as it trails off, and lets the point of his chin dig into Enjolras's skin.

"You were right, I think." The hand on Grantaire's shoulder slips up to stroke through Grantaire's hair. "I think I could have been happy at St. Cloud"—Grantaire snorts loudly—"but it's not what I really want to be doing. It's not the opportunity I thought it was going to be."

Grantaire waits, but Enjolras doesn't continue, he just settles back into holding Grantaire and idly touching him like the conversation's done, so Grantaire asks what seems like the obvious question. "So what are you going to do instead?" Because Enjolras might not have been happy at St. Cloud, but it seems pretty obvious that what Enjolras is currently doing isn't satisfying him, either.

That makes Enjolras come to attention. Grantaire can feel it run through him, a bright, vibrating sort of energy. "I've got a plan." He looks a little smug and a whole lot pleased with himself. "I'm going to start my own independent press. I won't have to answer to anyone else about the sorts of things I want to publish, I can make my own decisions based on my own tastes. No marketing departments or publicists sticking their noses into things. Just good books, and getting them in front of the people who want to read them."

Grantaire sits up. "That's not a bad idea. I mean, it's risky as fuck, you know that, right?"

Enjolras gives him a no-nonsense look. "I didn't start this career yesterday, R. I know what I'm up against."

Of course he does. Enjolras never does anything by halves, and if he's decided on this course of action, he's probably already got business proposals drawn up and contingency plans made. "I have faith. If anyone can go up against the big boys and win, it's you."

"R, it's _us_."

Grantaire lifts his brows. Instead of answering, Enjolras scrambles out of bed and out of the bedroom. Grantaire would be a bit more chagrined about his sudden flight if it weren't for the thoroughly entertaining sight of Enjolras dashing around stark naked.

He's back in a moment with one of the books, Grantaire's first, the one he said was his favorite. He climbs back onto the bed and sits cross-legged at Grantaire's side. "Here, look. Look at this part."

"Oh God." Grantaire turns his face against Enjolras's shoulder with broken laugh. "I can't believe you aren't sick of that thing after all the rounds of edits we put each other through. I haven't looked at it in years. Haven't had the stomach."

"Good. You'll be able to come at it fresh, and see it for how it really is." Enjolras opens the book and starts flipping through it, to pages that have been marked and dog-eared, showing Grantaire passages he's marked with highlighter or circled in pen.

It's a wonder, seeing him like this, his face bright with passion and excitement. Grantaire's used to talking about his books with Enjolras over email, not in person like this, and he's starting to think that was a significant oversight. "This, look at this," he says and practically shoves the book in Grantaire's face, showing him a highlighted paragraph. "Read that, and tell me that isn't a metaphor worthy of any literary press out there."

"I quite liked that one, when I came up with it," Grantaire admits grudgingly. 

"It's brilliant, and I'm not being hyperbolic when I say that. What you write… it's not just entertaining, it's not just well-crafted, it's _good_. And that's what I want for my press, books that are awesome, above and beyond the level of craft. I want you to write for it, R. You belong there, more than anyone."

"Thank you," Grantaire says, at a loss. "But you know I'm still not going to give up writing about magic and spaceships, right? I love you, Apollo"—and oh God, it's probably too soon to say that, it is _definitely_ too soon to say that, they've only just had their first kiss, but Enjolras's expression goes sharp and bright and intent, so maybe it's okay after all—"but I'm not going to change that even for you."

"I know. I don't want you to. I told you, I love what you write, that means all of it. That's the whole point of this press — we won't have to compromise one for the other. It won't matter what genre you write, whether it's literary or speculative or something that blends the two, all that matters is that it's great. And yours are great, R. And we're going to get lots of other writers who are too, and we're going to show the big publishers everything they've been missing out on."

"We," Grantaire echoes softly, and can't help but smiling at it.

"Of course." Enjolras seeks his hand out and squeezes it tight. "I'm going to need a partner in this, you know. I think a New York Times bestselling author would just about fit the bill, don't you?"

There's absolutely nothing Grantaire can do about that but roll Enjolras beneath him and kiss him until they're both breathless. And when he has to break away and lean his forehead against Enjolras's while he struggles to fill his lungs, he slides his hands down Enjolras's sides and murmurs, "Who else are we going to get to write for us, then? Should we hold open call submissions? Go trawling for diamond-in-the-rough newbies no one's ever heard of before so we can polish them up to a high shine?"

"I wanted to ask Jehan. And Cosette, too, if she's willing to jump ship. Between the there of you, that ought to be enough to get us stated."

"Oh God, those are brilliant choices. Yes all around. Jehan'll do it, I know he will, he values you as an editor as much as I do. And I bet Cosette will, too. She looked none too pleased about that asshole at the party."

"Good." Enjolras looks pleased and self-satisfied again. It really should not be as endearing a look on him as it is. He thrusts a hand out in between the two of them and watches Grantaire expectantly. "Partners, then?"

"Partners." Grantaire clasps his hand and shakes, and then uses it to pull Enjolras in for another round of kisses. "And a fair bit more than that, besides."


End file.
